UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
AT   LOS  ANGELES 


THE  GIFT  OF 

MAY  TREAT  MORRISON 

IN  MEMORY  OF 

ALEXANDER  F  MORRISON 


AT    THE 

LIBRARY  TABLE 


BY 


ADRIAN  HOFFMAN  JOLINE 

1 1 

Author  of 

"Meditations  of  an  Autograph  Collector" 
"The  Diversions  of  a  Book  Lover" 


BOSTON 
RICHARD  G.  BADGER 


1910 


Copyright,  1909,  by  A.  H.  Joline 


AH  Rights  Reserved 


THE  GORHAM  PRESS,  BOSTON,  U.  S.  A. 


r  J 

351? 

o  X  a. 


PREFATORY  NOTE 

THREE   of  the   papers   in    this   volume   have 
been  privately  printed.     I  have  added,  how 
ever,  some  new  matter  to  the  sketches  of 
w  Ainsworth  and  James;   and  it  has  been  sug- 

s       gested  to  me  that  those  sketches  should  be  published, 
although  I  have  some  misgivings  about  them.     The 
other  paper  I  am  reprinting  merely  to  please  myself. 
Two  men  have  confided  to  me  that  they  have  read  it, 
and  possibly  two  more  may  be  persuaded  to  do  the 
5       same  thing. 
„;  November,  1909. 

i 


o 

t 

3 


, 


134338 


CONTENTS 

PAGE. 

I.     At  the  Library  Table 5 

II.     The  Deliberations  of  a  Dofob 31 

III.  In  a  Library  Corner 45 

IV.  Of  the  Old  Fashion 67 

V.     William  Harrison  Ainsworth 83 

VI.     George  P.  R.  James 125 


AT  THE  LIBRARY  TABLE 

WHETHER  there  are  many  who  take  much 
interest  in  books  about  books  is  a  mat 
ter  of  doubt.  Multitudes  of  people  like 
to  think  that  they  are  fond  of  books 
merely  as  books,  and  derive  great  com 
fort  from  the  innocent  delusion  that  they  delight  in 
the  possession  of  them.  A  neat  and  imposing  library  is 
an  attractive  ornament  of  the  country  house  as  well  as 
of  the  city  mansion,  and  if  the  volumes  are  bound  in  a 
becoming  fashion,  by  Zaehnsdorf,  Riviere,  Lortic,  or 
Cobden-Sanderson,  they  look  well  on  the  shelves  and 
impart  to  the  establishment  an  air  of  dignity  and  refine 
ment.  But  it  is  a  portentous  question  whether  the  ma 
jority  of  book-owners  ever  find  occasion  or  opportu 
nity  to  inquire  within  or  to  inform  themselves  about  the 
contents  of  the  tomes  which  line  the  walls  of  the  com- 
foirtable  library.  The  toilers  who  are  absorbed  in  the 
drudgery  of  daily  work  have  little  leisure  to  expend  on 
the  inside  of  their  books,  and  the  merry  idlers  who 
devote  their  energies  to  sports,  athletic  or  otherwise, 
amusements,  and  the  varied  diversions  which  occupy 
the  minds  of  the  members  of  our  modern  "society", 
have  still  less.  My  dear  friend,  the  average  man,  de 
serving  as  he  is  of  admiration  and  respect,  cannot  have 
much  interest  in  books  which  are  purely  bookish,  and 
my  dearer  friend,  the  average  woman,  who  now  and 
again  plunges  calmly  but  despairingly  into  the  depths 
of  "literature", — combining  with  others  of  her  kind 
in  so-called  reading  clubs,  so  as  to  share  her  afflictions 

5 


6  AT  THE  LIBRARY  TABLE 

with  her  fellbws^setretly  longs  for  the  sweets 
of  fiction:  w&lp  -she  pnjrtenciis  to  be  fond  of  such  stupid 
performances  as  essays  and  dissertations.  In  the  re 
cesses  of  her  personality  she  regards  works  of  that 
description  as  bores  to  be  avoided;  and  very  likely 
she  is  not  far  wrong. 

Mind,  I  am  not  talking  of  inhabitants  of  Boston, 
Massachusetts.  It  may  be  that  my  notions  are  derived 
wholly  from  my  New  York  environment.  A  New 
Yorker  appears  to  think  that  it  is  an  evidence  of  weak 
ness  to  allow  any  one  to  find  out  that  books  are  dear 
to  him,  and  seems  to  be  as  loath  to  confess  the  pas 
sion  as  he  would  be  to  proclaim  at  the  club  or  upon 
the  house-tops  his  fond  attachment  to  the  lady  of  his 
choice.  In  the  goodly  number  of  years  during  which 
I  have  trodden  the  pavements  and  availed  of  the  facil 
ities  of  transit  afforded  by  the  street-railways  of  the 
city  whereof  we  are  justly  proud,  I  do  not  remember 
hearing  the  subject  of  books  or  of  things  pertaining 
to  books  discussed  or  even  referred  to  by  any  of  my 
neighbors.  But  recently  in  Boston,  while  walking  on 
Boylston  Street,  I  passed  two  lads  who  were  still  in  their 
later  teens,  and  distinctly  heard  one  of  them  say,  "the 
Latin  derivation  of  that  word  is" — I  lost  the  rest  of  it. 
In  New  York  he  would  have  been  uttering  something 
in  the  vulgar  argot  used  by  the  youth  of  our  times, — 
preserved  and  fostered  by  the  newspaper — about  "de 
cops"  or  ude  Giants",  or  the  superiority  of  some  novel 
brand  of  cigarettes.  They  would  have  blushed  for 
shame  to  be  discovered  in  the  possession  of  any  knowl 
edge  of  such  discreditable  matters  as  "Latin"  or  "de 
rivations"  of  any  description.  The  gospel  of  "doing 
things"  has  been  preached  to  them  so  strenuously  that 
they  have  long  since  forgotten,  if  they  ever  knew,  that 
there  is  any  virtue  in  "knowing  things". 


AT  THE  LIBRARY  TABLE  7 

Sitting  at  the  library  table  and  letting  my  eyes  wander 
with  affection  to  the  adjacent  shelves,  I  try  to  fancy  who 
buys  the  multitudinous  books  of  memoirs  and  reminis 
cences,  of  literary,  dramatic  and  political  gossip,  which 
are  poured  forth  so  profusely  from  the  English  presses. 
Now  and  then  I  encounter  their  titles  in  seductive  cata 
logues  and  purchase  them  at  large  reductions  from  the 
original  prices — "published  at  £3  IDS  and  marked  down 
to  75  6d."  We  have  nothing  quite  like  them  in  these 
United  States,  or  very  little,  because  they  do  not  "pay", 
as  the  phrase  runs.  I  wonder  whether  these  English 
books  "pay"  in  England,  but  I  am  inclined  to  think 
that  they  must,  for  publishers  are  not  usually  actuated 
by  motives  of  pure  philanthropy;  they  do  not  print 
for  pleasure  only  or  for  personal  gratification  in  bring 
ing  out  the  screeds  of  ambitious  authors.  I  like  those 
English  books ;  their  type  is  large  and  legible ;  the  paper 
has  a  substantial  mellowness;  and  the  simple  bindings 
are  well-fitted  to  be  torn  off  and  replaced  by  real  bind 
ings.  They  have  the  merit  of  what  may  be  called 
"skippability",  for  the  writers  are  sadly  given  to  deplor 
able  diffuseness  and  degenerate  frequently  into  tedious- 
ness  for  which  I  love  them,  as  a  fellow-sinner.  They 
convey  impressions  of  abundant  leisure  and  unlimited 
vocabulary.  Does  an  author  ever  become  conscious  that 
he  is  growing  tedious?  If  he  does,  how  he  must  revel  in 
the  thought  that,  despite  his  tediousness,  some  daring 
explorer  will  toil  through  his  pages,  and  that  in  some 
library  at  least,  be  it  that  of  the  British  Museum  or  of 
our  own  Congress,  his  book  will  stand  triumphantly 
upon  the  shelves  in  the  company  of  Lord  Avebury's 
One  Hundred. 

I  do  not  believe  that  an  ordinary  American,  at  least 
in  these  days,  would  dream  of  publishing  such  a  book 


8  AT  THE  LIBRARY  TABLE 

as  "Gossip  From  Paris",  the  correspondence  (1864- 
1869)  of  Anthony  B.  North  Peat,  which  the  Kegan 
Paul  house  brought  out  a  few  years  ago.  Some  one 
may  say  that  an  American  could  not,  and  I  will  not 
deny  the  charge  if  it  is  made.  North  Peat,  whose  name 
sounds  like  that  of  a  station  on  the  Grand  Trunk  Rail 
way,  was  not  by  any  means  a  famous  person,  but  he  was 
a  clever  and  an  observant  journalist  and  there  is  much 
of  interest  in  the  volume  mingled  with  much  that  is  of 
no  present  interest  whatever.  One  passage  has  given 
me  comfort,  because  it  contains  something  rarely 
encountered — a  good  word  for  the  collector  of  auto 
graphs.  Usually  when  an  author  is  feeling  a  little 
rancor  about  life  generally,  he  will  go  far  out  of  his 
way  to  kick  an  autograph  collector.  I  purr  slightly 
when  I  quote  what  North  Peat  wrote  in  September, 
1866. 

"I  know  one  man  in  Paris  who  has  an  extensive 
library  composed  exclusively  of  works  in  one  volume 
and  of  the  same  folio;  but,  perhaps,  among  the  mani 
fold  phases  of  the  collecting  mania  none  is  more  excus 
able  than  that  of  gathering  autographs.  *  *  *  To 
read  over  the  names  and  the  tariff  at  which  signatures 
or  letters  are  quoted  gives  a  most  curious  insight  into 
the  place  held  in  public  opinion  by  the  generals,  diplo 
matists,  poets,  literary  men,  composers,  and  even  crim 
inals  whose  handwritings  are  eagerly  sought  for  by 
amateurs.  Last  month  the  prices  ran  thus :  George 
Sand,  6f. ;  Seward,  lof. ;  Jefferson  Davis,  I5f. ;  Duke 
of  Morny,  4f.  5oc.;  Michelet,  if.  75c.;  McClellan, 
2of. ;  Verdi,  3f.  5OC. ;  Prevost  Paradol,  2f.  5oc. ; 
Champfleury,  2f.  Gerard  de  Nerval  is  quoted  2of., 
thanks  to  a  note  attached  to  the  letter,  'correspondance 
amoreuse  tres  passionee.'  A  copybook  of  the  King  of 
Rome  is  quoted  2of.  Renan,  the  sceptic  author  of 
La  Vie  de  Jesus,  keeps  up  in  the  market,  and  goes  for 


AT  THE  LIBRARY  TABLE  9 

i of.  A  letter  of  Henri  Latouche  is  to  be  sold  for  2f. 
500.;  it  contains  the  following  curious  passage:  'The 
only  souvenirs  of  my  literary  life  to  which  I  look  back 
with  pride  are,  having  edited  Andre  Chenier  and  having 
deterred  George  Sand  from  devoting  her  talents  to 
water-colour  drawing.'  A  letter  of  Louis  XVI  is 
quoted  at  2f.  5OC.,  by  which  the  King  grants  a  sum  of 
24<Dof.  (£100)  to  'La  Dame  Rousseau,  cradle-rocker 
to  the  children  of  France'." 

I  have  quoted  thus  at  length  not  only  because  of  my 
pride  in  the  compliment  to  autograph  collectors  but 
because  the  prices  mentioned  must  bring  a  pang  to  the 
hearts  of  those  who  buy  now-a-days  and  pay  more  than 
ten  times  as  much  for  George  Sands,  Verdis,  and  Louis 
XVIs.  I  can  imagine  the  sensations  of  a  dealer  of 
to-day  if  some  innocent  should  offer  fifty  cents  for  that 
Louis  XVI  document' — I  am  confident  that  it  was  not 
a  letter.  Mr.  North  Peat  has  overlooked  the  fact,  as 
is  common  with  those  who  do  not  belong  to  the  inner 
brotherhood,  that  contents  are  of  much  consequence  in 
establishing  the  market  value  of  autograph  letters,  but 
his  figures  are  not  without  significance.  Some  of  us 
are  glad  to  observe  that  even  in  1866  McClellan's  auto 
graph  "fetched"  twice  as  much  as  Seward's  and  six 
times  as  much  as  Verdi's. 

Very  unlike  the  reasonable  remarks  of  North  Peat  is 
the  autographic  deliverance  of  that  once  celebrated 
"educator",  Mr.  Horace  Mann.  This  gem  of  wisdom, 
given  to  me  by  a  Boston  friend  in  a  malicious  spirit  of 
kindly  generosity,  is  lying  on  the  library  table.  It  reads 
thus : — 

"I  would  rather  perform  one  useful  act  for  my  fel 
low  men  than  to  be  the  possessor  of  all  the  autographs 
in  the  world.  HORACE  MANN. 

"West  Newton,  April  23,   '50." 


io  AT  THE  LIBRARY  TABLE 

It  is  an  excellent  specimen  of  the  smug  self -satisfac 
tion,  the  Chadbandian  cant,  the  affectation  of  altruism 
which  marked  the  middle  of  the  nineteenth  century, 
particularly  in  the  regions  lying  about  West  Newton. 
Cheap  enough  withal  it  seems  to  be,  for  as  he  could 
never  by  any  chance  become  "the  possessor  of  all  the 
autographs  in  the  world",  his  expression  of  preference 
signifies  nothing  whatever.  The  formula  is  simple 
enough.  Select  something  which  sounds  noble  and  un 
selfish  and  then  say  that  you  would  rather  do  that 
thing  than  to  have — all  the  diamonds,  all  the  pictures, 
all  the  Caxtons,  all  the  gold  mines,  air  the  puppy-dogs 
and  all  the  tabby-cats  in  the  universe.  It  is  in  contem 
poraneous  vernacular,  a  safe  "bluff".  If  he  had  said 
that  he  would  rather  perform  one  useful  act  for  his  fel 
low  men  than  to  be  the  owner  of  a  hundred  shares  of 
Standard  Oil,  it  would  have  had  some  meaning,  for  one 
could  then  measure  the  precise  extent  of  his  devotion 
to  the  welfare  of  mankind.  One  may  naturally  in 
quire,  why  not  have  all  the  autographs  in  the  world 
and  do  not  one  but  many  useful  acts  for  one's  fel 
low  men?  There  is  no  inherent  incompatibility  between 
the  two  ideas. 

It  may  be  suggested  that  the  subject  of  books  about 
books  and  the  gathering  of  autographs  are  not  cog 
nate;  that  they  have  no  relation  to  each  other;  that 
they  are  illegally  joined  together  in  defiance  of  the  laws 
laid  down  in  Day's  Praxis.  I  knew  a  dignified  New 
England  author,  lawyer  and  soldier  who  was  accus 
tomed,  when  assailed  by  a  proposition  to  which  he  did 
not  assent,  but  which  he  was  too  polite  to  dispute,  to 
close  discussion  by  the  sententious  remark,  "That  in 
deed".  I  never  fully  understood  precisely  what  it 
meant,  but  it  seemed  to  be  conclusive  for  there  was  no 


II 

more  to  be  said.  It  was  like  some  of  the  cryptic  utter 
ances  of  that  model  of  concise  expression,  Mr.  F's 
aunt.  But  I  maintain  that  the  man  who  truly  covets 
autographs,  covets  books  likewise  for  the  sake  of  the 
books  themselves,  irrespective  of  style  or  contents.  It 
may  be  one  of  Mr.  Crother's  One  Hundred  Worst 
Books,  but  all  the  more  precious  for  that  very  reason. 
My  point  is  easily  demonstrated  by  a  logical  device  not 
uncommonly  adopted  by  those  who  manufacture  our 
opinions  for  us  in  the  public  press.  The  man  who — to 
continue  the  locution  of  Mr.  Joseph  Surface — does  not 
feel  a  fondness  for  books  of  the  bookish  sort,  derives 
no  gratification  from  the  ownership  of  autographs.  I 
am  not  referring  to  the  pseudo-collector  with  his  album 
or  to  the  encourager  of  profanity  who  besets  the  liv 
ing  great  with  requests  for  his  signature.  I  allude,  sir, 
as  General  Cyrus  Choke  said  in  regard  to  the  British 
lion,  to  him  who  finds  a  charm  in  written  words  penned 
by  the  hand  of  a  warrior,  a  statesman,  or  a  scholar.  It 
is  a  charm  that  may  not  be  defined,  for  when  you  ven 
ture  upon  a  definition  it  softly  and  suddenly  vanishes 
away  like  the  Baker  who  encountered  the  Snark  that 
was  a  Boojum  in  the  Carrollian  fable. 

I  am  not  ashamed  to  acknowledge  that  there  is  some 
thing  about  the  exterior  of  books  which  appeals  to  our 
warmest  affections.  We  love  to  sit  among  them  and 
enjoy  the  sight  of  them  as  many  rejoice  in  the  prospect 
of  lake,  valley  and  mountain.  Dear  old  R.  Wilfer  in 
Our  Mutual  Friend  had  one  darling  wish,  to  possess 
at  one  time  a  complete  new  attire  from  boots  to 
hat,  but  he  never  attained  that  glorious  pinnacle.  The 
late  Sultan  of  Turkey,  thirty  years  or  more  ago,  had 
an  enthusiasm  for  rifles,  bought  a  lot  of  them  at  an 


12  AT  THE  LIBRARY  TABLE 

enormous  cost,  and  constructed  for  the  storage  of  these 
treasures  a  kind  of  mausoleum  of  rifles,  a  grand  edi 
fice  in  which  the  muskets  were  arranged  in  serried  ranks 
radiating  from  a  centre  where,  upon  a  throne,  the  po 
tentate  who  called  himself  Abdul  Hamid  Khan  Sani, 
Sultan  and  Sovereign  of  the  Ottoman  Empire,  was 
accustomed  to  sit  in  solemn  and  solitary  state  while  he 
gloated  over  his  acquisitions.  In  like  spirit  I  would 
exult  if  I  could  have  a  library  room  where  I  could  see 
all  the  books  at  once,  reviewing  the  beloved  brigades 
and  cheerfully  foregoing  the  reading  of  them.  To 
marshal  the  regiments  of  books,  the  well-uniformed  bat 
talions,  the  heavy  artillery  of  the  folios,  the  light  skirm 
ishers  of  the  duodecimos,  would  bring  a  joy  akin  to 
that  which  the  pompous  and  patriotic  soldier,  the  vain 
est  of  men,  Brevet  Lieutenant  General  Winfield  Scott, 
used  to  feel  when,  sitting  on  his  charger,  he  reviewed 
the  valiant  little  army  which  conquered  Mexico  over 
sixty  years  ago.  This  recalls  to  me  that  in  the  inno 
cent  hours  of  childhood  I  supposed  that  the  head  which 
Salome  demanded  was  brought  to  King  Herod  on  just 
such  a  charger  as  the  General  bestrode  according  to  the 
veracious  picture  which  hung  over  the  sofa  in  the 
"back  parlor",  when  I  also  firmly  believed  that  the 
baskets  in  which  the  fragments  were  gathered  after  the 
miracle  were  the  large,  ordinary  baskets  used  in  our 
laundry. 

Vain  as  he  was,  the  old  General  was  a  good,  sturdy 
warrior,  and  no  one  can  read  his  egostistical  memoirs 
without  becoming  aware  of  the  fact,  in  spite  of  his 
enormous  self-conceit.  When  King  Edward  VII  vis 
ited  us  as  Prince  of  Wales  in  1860,  I  saw  the  royal 
youth  on  the  parade-ground  at  West  Point.  I  remem 
ber  him  well,  for  as  A.  Ward  observed,  "I  seldom  for- 


AT  THE  LIBRARY  TABLE  13 

git  a  person".  But  the  General  was  the  man  I  longed 
to  gaze  upon,  and  I  regret  that  a  facetious  uncle  easily 
persuaded  me  that  the  gorgeous  drum-major  who  led 
the  band  was  the  Great  Scott  himself.  The  materiality 
of  this  reminiscence  lies  in  the  fact  that  a  volume  of 
Scott's  Memoirs  is  usually  to  be  found  on  the  library 
table,  a  model  of  what  an  autobiography  ought  not  to 
be.  Soldiers  in  later  days  learned  to  write  the  story  of 
their  battles  with  more  good  taste  and  modesty.  Per 
haps  General  Benjamin  F.  Butler  was  an  exception,  but 
he  was  not  a  soldier,  and  his  battles  were  very  few; 
and  those  of  us  who  loved  and  honored  McClellan 
regret  the  publishing  of  his  "Own  Story",  a  deed  he 
would  never  have  countenanced.  A  man  should  never 
be  judged  by  what  he  writes  to  his  wife. 

It  would  not  be  amiss  if  some  fair-minded  and  com 
petent  person  would  give  us  a  candid  and  impartial  his 
tory  of  some  of  the  men  who  have  been  dealt  with  un 
justly  by  the  merciless  masses  in  this  country.  McClel 
lan  is  one  of  these  victims,  although  students  of  mili 
tary  affairs  have  begun  to  comprehend  the  truth  about 
him;  but  the  great  majority  still  believe  that  he  was  a 
timid,  dilatory  and  inefficient  commander  who  quar 
relled  with  his  President  without  a  cause.  General  Ar 
thur  St.  Clair,  of  revolutionary  times,  was  even  a  great 
er  sufferer,  and  he  has  been  so  long  dead  that  his  rec 
ord  may  be  judged  calmly.  Aaron  Burr  has  had  several 
defenders,  and  it  is  now  well  established  that  whatever 
sins  he  may  have  committed,  treason  was  not  one  of 
them.  Martin  Van  Buren,  sorely  maligned  by  par 
tisan  historians,  has  been  ably  vindicated  by  Edward 
Morse  Shepard.  James  K.  Polk,  Chief  Justice  Taney, 
and  Andrew  Johnson  also  deserve  to  be  relieved  from 
many  of  the  aspersions  which  have  been  plentifully  be- 


i4  AT  THE  LIBRARY  TABLE 

stowed  upon  them.  Unfortunately  there  is  a  tendency 
on  the  part  of  most  men  who  undertake  a  work  of  that 
character  to  become  advocates  rather  than  judges,  and 
to  impair  the  influence  of  their  arguments  by  an  excess 
of  ardor. 

Most  O'f  us  find  that  as  the  number  of  our  years 
increases  we  are  apt  to  pass  more  and  more  of  our 
time  at  the  library  table,  within  easy  reach  of  the 
shelves.  I  have  been  charged  with  believing  that  books 
are  "the  chief  things  in  life";  I  admit  that  they  are 
not  and  ought  not  to  be  that,  but  I  see  no  reason  why 
we  should  not  be  allowed  to  enjoy  them  as  we  would 
any  other  innocent  pleasure,  in  due  moderation.  A  good 
many  young  people  might  as  well  be  accused  of  believ 
ing  that  sports  were  the  chief  things  in  human  exist 
ence  ;  and  both  in  England  and  in  this  country  I  appre 
hend  that  sports  engross  the  attention  of  the  multitude 
to  the  exclusion  of  such  minor  things  as  books;  but  I 
find  no  fault  with  them  because  they  choose  pleasures 
different  from  mine. 

Youth  is  a  pleasure  in  itself,  but  one  may  be  allowed 
to  have  misgivings  as  to  whether  its  joys  are  not  in  some 
degree  overrated.  Certainly  our  young  people  seem 
to  work  very  hard  to  get  their  fun  out  of  life,  and  after 
they  have  had  it  they  do  not  appear  to  be  much  the 
better  for  it.  We  often  sigh  for  our  lost  youth,  and  if 
we  are  lucky  enough  to  be  able  to  remember  so  much  of 
our  Horace,  we  whisper  to  ourselves  "Eheu  fugaces" 
and  the  rest  of  it,  while  if  we  were  confronted  by  a 
decree  that  we  must  go  over  it  all  again,  Latin  included, 
we  would  beg  for  mercy,  or,  if  we  happened  to  be  law 
yers,  ask  for  an  adjournment.  It  is  "a  wise  dispensation 
of  Providence" — if  one  may  be  permitted  to  refer  to 


AT  THE  LIBRARY  TABLE  15 

the  mandates  of  Providence  in  that  patronizing  way — 
that  the  old  have  their  pleasures  too  and  that  the  boys 
and  girls  are  not  violating  any  congressional  or  legisla 
tive  provisions  against  trusts  by  having  a  monopoly  of 
enjoyment.  Most  of  these  pleasures  are  associated  with 
books.  Talleyrand's  sad,  whistless  old  age  is  of  no 
moment  when  compared  with  a  sad  bookless  old  age. 

The  accusation  that  the  lover  of  books  cares  more 
for  them  than  he  does  about  life  and  its  varied  prob 
lems,  is  as  unjust  as  the  complaint,  preferred — semi- 
jocosely,  it  must  be  owned, — by  that  pertinacious  biblio 
phile,  Irving  Browne,  that  "the  book-worm  does  not 
care  for  nature".  He  quotes  the  animal  as  saying: 

"I  feel  no  need  of  nature's  flowers, — 
Of  flowers  of  rhetoric  I  have  store; 

I  do  not  miss  the  balmy  showers — 
When  books  are  dry  I  o'er  them  pore. 

No  need  that  I  should  take  the  trouble 

To  go  abroad  to  walk  or  ride, 
For  I  can  sit  at  home  and  double 

Quite  up  with  pain  from  Akenside." 

The  punster  is  such  a  derelict,  such  a  scoffed-at  sinner, 
that  he  may  not  be  taken  very  seriously.  Others  than 
Browne  however,  have  gravely  reproached  the  devotee 
of  the  library  for  his  alleged  lack  of  affection  for  the 
outer  world  and  its  beauties.  But  the  man  who  knows 
his  Gilbert  White  of  Selborne,  and  his  John  Burroughs 
of  the  Hudson,  cannot  be  wholly  outside  the  ranks  of 
nature-lovers.  We  may  be  uttering  a  truism  when  we 
say  that  as  we  grow  older  we  come  closer  to  mother 
earth,  and  as  we  strike  off  more  and  more  years  from 
our  calendar  all  the  sweet  things  of  earth  are  nearer 
to  us  and  the  trees,  the  flowers,  the  fields,  and  the  wide 


1 6  AT  THE  LIBRARY  TABLE 

expanse  of  hill,  river  and  valley  take  on  a  new  meaning. 
A  few  days  ago  I  "took  a  drive",  if  one  may  avail  of 
that  wretched  colloquial  form  of  words,  to  the  hamlet 
of  Bedminster,  name  suggestive  of  Axminster  with  its 
carpets  and  Westminster  with  its  monuments,  as  far  as 
the  site  of  the  old  church  which  was  ruthlessly  and  need 
lessly  destroyed  by  iconoclasts  within  a  year  or  two. 
It  was  a  delightful  autumn  drive,  the  joy  of  it  tempered 
by  the  abominable  automobile  which  infests  our  New 
Jersey  roads  with  its  hoots  and  stinks  and  cloudy  mantle 
of  dust:  and  the  bookish  associations  surely  did  not 
detract  from  the  pleasure.  There  is  a  good  picture  of 
the  church  in  Melick's  "Story  of  an  Old  Farm",  a  book 
containing  a  mine  of  information  about  a  neighborhood 
filled  with  associations  of  the  Revolution.  When  you 
pass  by  the  graveyard  which  still  remains,  you  cannot 
help  thinking  of  the  young  English  officer,  wounded  and 
captured  at  Princeton,  who  died  on  the  journey  to  Mor- 
ristown  and  was  buried  in  that  field  where  his  monu 
ment  remains  at  this  day.  Melick's  book  is  disorderly 
and  needs  condensing  and  arranging,  but  let  no  one  tell 
me  that  the  natural  beauty  of  the  country  is  lessened  for 
me  because  I  study  it.  It  is  one  of  those  most  often  to 
be  found  on  the  library  table  in  company  with  Ludwig 
Schumacher's  pretty  story  of  the  "Somerset  Hills". 

Many  of  us  may  recall  from  our  own  experience 
examples  of  the  peace  and  contentment,  the  grace  and 
the  dignity  of  book-lovers  who  have  understood  how 
to  combine  their  pleasure  with  the  active  affairs  of  busi 
ness.  I  remember  affectionately  one  who  had  passed 
beyond  the  years  of  what  Elisha  Williams  called  "God 
Almighty's  statute  of  limitations",  and  who  went  to  his 
rest  only  a  few  months  ago.  Elbridge  Goss,  of  Mel- 
rose,  was  a  type  of  a  New  England  gentleman,  a  man 


AT  THE  LIBRARY  TABLE  17 

of  business  as  well  as  a  lover  of  literature  and  of  his 
torical  pursuits,  fond  of  his  books  and  autographs,  all 
in  a  mild,  modest  and  unobtrusive  way;  a  gentle,  admir 
able  man,  deserving  of  esteem  and  honor.  There  was 
no  pretense  about  him;  he  had  a  delightful  simplicity, 
a  true  catholicity  of  sentiment;  there  was  no  envy, 
hatred  or  malice  in  his  composition.  His  "Life  of  Paul 
Revere"  has  long  been  known  favorably,  and  his  other 
works,  chiefly  historical,  were  no  less  meritorious.  His 
was  a  full,  useful  and  well-rounded  life,  and  although 
his  name  may  not  be  recorded  among  the  famous,  it 
will  not  be  forgotten. 

Some  weeks  before  his  death,  he  wrote  to  me  thus: 
"As  to  your  copy  of  Coleridge,  has  it  the  expunged 
verse  from  'The  Rime  of  the  Ancient  Mariner'?  The 
genial  Longfellow  once  picked  up  his  copy  from  his 
centre-table  and  read  it  to  me  as  follows: 

'A  gust  of  wind  sterte  up  behind 

And  whistled  thro'  his  bones, 
Thro'  the  holes  of  his  eyes  and  the  hole  of  his  mouth 

Half  whistles  and  half  groans.' 

When  Coleridge  saw  it  in  print,  he  took  his  pencil, 
crossed  it  off,  and  wrote  in  the  margin,  'To  be  struck 
out.  S.  T.  C.'  It  did  not  appear  in  subsequent  edi 
tions."  Coleridge  did  well  to  erase  it  for  it  is  danger 
ously  near  to  the  ludicrous. 

Whether  the  poet's  later  emendations  of  his  pub 
lished  verses  are  always  improvements  is  problematical. 
We  have  been  surfeited  of  late  with  examples  of  Ten 
nyson's  amendments.  He  seems  never  to  have  been 
wholly  satisfied  with  his  work.  In  Buxton  Forman's 
"Keat's  Poetry  and  Prose",  one  may  perceive  that  a 


1 8  AT  THE  LIBRARY  TABLE 

poet's  changes  while  sometimes  making  the  lines 
smoother,  almost  invariably  weaken  the  effect.  It  is 
so  with  Byron.  The  first  thought  and  image,  coming 
fresh  from  the  brain,  are  usually  more  vigorous  and 
poetic  than  the  sober  second-thoughts,  and  alterations 
appear  to  enfeeble  the  expression.  It  is  Doctor  John 
son's  "wit  enough  to  keep  it  sweet"  and  the  "putrefac 
tion"  amendment  all  over  again.  That,  my  friend  who 
loves  to  ask  "Why  first  editions?"  is  one  of  the  reasons 
why. 

The  reference  to  Buxton  Forman  leads  me  to  record 
an  amusing  bit  of  characteristic  English  newspaper  wis 
dom.  Some  years  ago  in  a  book  about  autographs  I  ven 
tured  to  make  some  remarks  concerning  Keats  and  For 
man  which  drew  down  upon  me  the  sneers  of  a  London 
journal,  the  purport  of  which  was  that  my  observations 
were  vulgar  and  peculiarly  American.  After  I  had 
recovered  from  the  exaltation  of  spirit  arising  from 
being  noticed  at  all  by  such  an  eminent  authority,  I  per 
mitted  myself  to  indulge  in  justifiable  mirth  because  it 
happened  that  I  had  stolen  those  very  remarks  from  an 
old  number  of  the  London  Athenaeum  in  which  my 
Keats  letter  had  been  copied  and  described :  but  accord 
ing  to  the  well  known  custom  of  plagiarists,  I  had  ac 
cidentally  omitted  the  quotation  marks.  I  inferred  that 
an  English  assertion  becomes  vulgar  only  when  it  is 
repeated  by  a  despicable  Yankee.  Never  again  will  I 
be  guilty  of  petit  larceny. 

This  matter  of  quotations  is  often  a  troublesome  one. 
I  am  sorry  now  that  I  left  out  those  neat  little  commas. 
The  orator  has  an  unfair  advantage  over  the  writer, 
because  he  is  not  obliged  to  use  them,  and  in  common 
justice  he  should  be  required  to  give  some  sign  that  the 
eloquent  sentences  he  borrows  are  not  his  own:  he 


AT  THE  LIBRARY  TABLE  19 

might  be  compelled  to  hold  up  two  fingers.  A  good, 
well  rounded  quotation  is  a  great  help  when  ideas  grow 
so  timid  that  they  refuse  to  come  at  your  call.  I  sup 
pose  that  a  lawyer  who  is  asked  to-  speak  before  as 
semblages,  on  some  legal  topic,  almost  always  consults 
Harriett's  Familiar  Quotations,  where  he  finds  little  to 
aid  him  except  that  respectable  old  stand-by,  "The  seat 
of  the  law  is  the  bosom  of  God;  her  voice,  the  harmony 
of  the  world".  It  sounds  well  and  it  makes  a  sonor 
ous  finale,  besides  giving  the  impression  that  the  quoter 
is  accustomed  to  occupy  himself  with  the  works  of  fine 
old  authors :  although  it  always  seemed  to  me  that  when 
applied  to  what  we  call  "the  law"  in  these  times,  it  is 
rather  highly  colored.  A  friend  who  was  an  admirer 
of  the  sentiment  once  carefully  prepared  an  "address" 
to  be  delivered  before  the  Maryland  Bar  Association, 
and  had  it  printed  in  advance,  lugging  in  the  famous 
lines  at  the  close  of  his  peroration.  To  his  horror,  the 
learned  President  of  the  Association,  who  spoke  imme 
diately  before  him,  and  who  evidently  had  a  Bartlett  of 
his  own,  closed  an  admirable  speech  with  the  same  old 
"seat"  and  "bosom"  story.  There  was  nothing  to  be  done 
but  to  pour  it  forth  again  upon  the  heads  of  those  help 
less  Marylanders,  on  whom  it  must  have  had  a  "punch 
brothers"  effect;  but  that  man  will  never  trot  out  the 
"harmony"  yarn  again  unless  he  is  sure  that  he  is  to 
have  the  first  chance  at  it. 

Mr.  James  Ford  Rhodes  in  an  entertaining  paper 
about  Edward  Gibbon,  expresses  his  belief  that  the  his 
torian  of  Rome's  decline  and  fall  thought  with  Thucy- 
dides  "My  history  is  an  everlasting  possession,  not  a 
prize  composition  which  is  heard  and  forgotten".  It 
is  not  a  particularly  novel  observation,  but  a  faded 


20  AT  THE  LIBRARY  TABLE 

pamphlet  lying  before  me  is  a  reminder  of  the  fact  that 
"prize  compositions",  "prize  poems",  and  "poems  on 
occasions"  are  always  much  the  same  as  they  were  in 
the  time  of  Thucydides,  feeble  things,  and  the  wonder 
is  why  men  go  on  encouraging  them  and  why  sane  peo 
ple  continue  to  produce  them,  unless  there  is  a  fond 
hope  that  some  of  them  may  turn  out  to  be  as  good  as 
"The  Builders"  of  Henry  Van  Dyke  or  the  great  Com 
memoration  Ode  of  James  Russell  Lowell.  Even  the 
devoted  worshipers  of  the  Autocrat  must  admit  that  as 
his  college  class  drew  nearer  to  the  front  rank  of  the 
Alumni  processions,  his  reunion-verses  grew  quite  tire 
some;  but  no  one  could  go  on  for  some  seventy  years 
writing  anniversary  stanzas  on  the  same  theme  without 
degenerating  into  the  commonplace.  The  pamphlet  is 
a  little  one  of  thirteen  pages,  entitled  "Pompeii,  A  Poem 
which  obtained  the  Chancellor's  Medal  at  the  Cam 
bridge  Commencement,  July,  1819;  by  Thomas  Bab- 
ington  Macaulay,  of  Trinity  College."  It  was  of  this 
juvenile  poem  that  the  boyish  author  wrote  to  his  father 
on  February  5,  1819  :  "I  have  not,  of  course,  had  time 
to  examine  with  attention  all  your  criticism  on  'Pom 
peii'.  I  certainly  am  much  obliged  to  you  for  with 
drawing  so  much  time  from  more  important  business 
to  correct  my  expressions.  Most  of  the  remarks  which 
I  have  examined  are  perfectly  just;  but  as  to  the  more 
momentous  charge,  the  want  of  a  moral,  I  think  it 
might  be  a  sufficient  defence  that,  if  a  subject  is  given 
which  admits  of  none,  the  man  who  writes  without  a 
moral  is  scarcely  censurable."*  Poets,  whether  young 
or  old,  seldom  take  kindly  to  criticism  of  their  lines, 
but  one  cannot  help  feeling  some  sympathy  with  the 


*Trevelyan's  Life  of  Macaulay,  I,  93. 


AT  THE  LIBRARY  TABLE  21 

youthful  Thomas  in  his  gentle  rebellion  against  the 
unpoetic  demand  of  his  somewhat  priggish  parent  for 
a  "moral",  although  the  subject  of  "Pompeii"  ought 
to  be  far  more  fruitful  of  "morals"  than  that  which 
ten  years  later  was  inflicted  upon  Tennyson,  whose 
"Timbuctoo"  carried  off  the  prize  in  1829.  The  Lau 
reate's  successful  "piece"  is  less  impressive  than  Thack 
eray's  biting  burlesque — not  of  Tennyson  but  of  every 
thing  produced  on  that  absurd  theme — beginning  some 
thing  like  this : 

"In  Africa — a  quarter  of  the  world — 
Men's  skins  are  black;  their  hair  is  crisped  and  curled, 
And  somewhere  there,  unknown  to  public  view, 
A  mighty  city  lies,  called  Timbuctoo." 

Tennyson  competed  because  his  father  wished  him  to, 
and  "in  place  of  preparing  a  new  poem  he  furbished 
up  an  old  one  written  in  blank  verse  instead  of  the 
orthodox  heroic  couplet  and  sent  it  in."*  Milnes 
wrote  at  the  time,  "Tennyson's  poem  has  made  quite  a 
sensation;  it  is  certainly  equal  to  most  parts  of  Mil 
ton!"  The  future  Lord  Houghton  was  a  cheerful, 
genial  person,  if  he  iscas  guilty  of  the  most  abominable 
handwriting  I  ever  encountered,  for  the  celebrated 
scrawls  of  James  Payn,  Charles  Darwin  and  Horace 
Greeley  are  copperplate  script  in  comparison;  and 
Milnes  was  only  twenty  then.  I  knew  quite  a  number 
of  Tennysons  and  Miltons,  of  the  mute,  inglorious  sort, 
when  I  was  enjoying  the  enthusiasms  of  that  period  of 
life,  under  the  shadow  of  the  Princeton  elms ;  but  some 
how  their  chariots  have  all  been  transformed  into  mo 
tor-cars,  although  they  have  avoided  the  fate  of  Phae- 
thon,  that  mythological  prototype  of  a  chauffeur. 

*Tennyson:   E.  L.  Gary,  19. 


22  AT  THE  LIBRARY  TABLE 

"Pompeii",  naturally  enough,  is  a  fair  example  of 
the  stilted  verse  which  a  bright  lad  might  well  have 
written  in  1819.  He  tells  us,  among  other  interesting 
details,  how 

"In  vain  Vesuvius  groans  with  wrath  supprest, 
And  mutter'd  thunder  in  his  burning  breast, 
Long  since  the  Eagle  from  that  flaming  peak 
Hath  soar'd  with  screams  a  safer  nest  to  seek. 
Aw'd  by  th'  infernal  beacon's  fitful  glare 
The  howling  fox  hath  left  his  wonted  lair; 
Nor  dares  the  browzing  goat  in  vent'rous  leap 
To  spring,  as  erst,  from  dizzy  steep  to  steep;" 

the  moral,  which  father  Zachary  failed  to  detect,  being 
that  these  intelligent  brutes  had  much  more  foresight 
than  mere  Man,  and  had  wisely  decided  that  a  volcano 
in  eruption  was  "no  place  for  them". 

Poor  as  prize  poems  may  be  as  poetry,  some  famous 
men  have  not  disdained  to  enter  into  the  competitions. 
Lord  Selborne's  effort  gained  for  him  the  Newdigate 
prize  in  1832,  and  was  deemed  worthy  of  publication  in 
Blackwood.  The  list  of  prize  winners  in  the  two  great 
Universities  might  well  be  worth  studying,  even  if  the 
poetry  came  from  the  machine  and  not  from  inspiration. 
Byron's  Address  on  the  opening  of  the  new  Drury  Lane 
has  not  survived,  but  the  "Rejected  Addresses",  spon 
taneous  and  hors  concours,  will  never  be  wholly  for 
gotten.  Indeed  a  grave  personage  is  recorded  as  say 
ing  of  them  that  he  did  not  understand  why  they  should 
have  been  rejected,  as  some  of  them  were  very  good. 

A  book-lover  may  think  that  he  has  an  affection  for 
all  books,  but  he  surely  must  draw  the  line  at  law-books, 
books  of  theology  and  medical  treatises.  So  many 
people  who  have  a  notion  that  a  book  is  valuable  to  a 


AT  THE  LIBRARY  TABLE  23 

collector  merely  because  it  is  old,  will  insist  on  bringing 
to  me,  in  the  kindness  of  their  hearts,  ancient  theological 
tomes,  for  example,  which  are  in  fact  less  desirable  than 
old  Directories  and  not  for  a  moment  to  be  compared 
with  old  Almanacs.  I  have  a  friend  who  is  enamored 
of  school-books  and  books  on  mathematics;  a  mania 
that  has  method  in  it  and  I  can  understand  the  merit  of 
it  better  than  I  can  the  pursuit  of  first  editions  df 
Trollope.  He  has  a  remarkable  collection  and  has 
printed  a  catalogue  in  two  volumes,  not  only  complete 
in  all  details  but  a  handsome  specimen  of  book-making. 
He  showed  me  a  copy  once,  and  in  a  moment  of  hal 
lucination  I  thought  that  he  was  going  to  give  it  to  me, 
but  he  carried  it  away.  I  am  not  sure  that  I  would  be 
interested  in  the  collection,  and  he  cares  as  little  for  my 
autographs  as  I  do  for  his  arithmetics.  I  was  silly 
enough  to  speak  of  my  hobby  while  he  was  fussing  with 
his  catalogue  and  I  saw  his  eyes  assume  that  far-away 
look  which  meant  that  he  heard  me  and  that  was  all. 
When  any  one  with  feigned  interest  says,  "I  would  like 
so  much  to  see  your  autographs",  I  smile  inwardly,  if 
such  a  feat  is  possible,  and  I  know  that  it  is  only  one  of 
those  polite  fictions  which  go  so  far  towards  making 
life  pleasant.  Very  few  people,  especially  those  with  a 
pet  hobby  of  their  own,  care  a  straw  about  other  peo 
ple's  collections,  except  perhaps  in  the  matter  of  paint 
ings,  which,  to  use  an  abominable  but  familiar  phrase, 
is  "altogether  a  different  proposition".  The  other  man's 
collection  seldom  assumes  importance  until  the  auction 
eer  falls  heir  to  it.  For  collectors  seldom  have  much 
sympathy  with  collectors  who  occupy  different  fields 
from  theirs:  indeed  I  have  found  more  true  sympathy 
between  collectors  and  non-collectors.  Steele  in  one  of 
the  numbers  of  the  Taller  deals  with  the  mania  of  col- 


24  AT  THE  LIBRARY  TABLE 

lecting  and  makes  much  poor  fun  of  one  Nicholas  Gim- 
crack,  an  entomologist,  who  spent  a  fortune  in  accumu 
lating  insects;  but  entomologists  have  their  uses  and 
perhaps  Gimcrack,  if  such  a  person  ever  lived,  might 
have  retorted  that  his  spiders  were  as  well  worth  having 
as  Sir  Richard's  unparalleled  collection  of  unpaid  bills. 
There  are  useful  features  of  postage-stamp  collecting; 
there  are  attractions  about  the  hoards  of  numismatists; 
one  can  see  why  even  game-chickens  may  be  profitably 
"collected" ;  but  I  fancy  that  the  hobby  of  a  lady  of  my 
acquaintance — the  collecting  of  pianos — might  be 
attended  with  inconveniences.  I  fear  that  the  hapless 
being  who  confesses  that  he  is  an  autograph-collector 
receives  the  most  general  condemnation.  I  once  had  a 
notion  of  bringing  together  what  might  be  called  the 
by-products  of  autograph-collecting, — a  collection  of  all 
the  ill-natured  and  abusive  things  ever  written  or 
printed  about  autograph-collectors  from  the  beginning 
of  the  world  to  the  present  day,  but  it  would  probably 
fill  a  book  as  big  as  my  Boydell  Shakespeare,  which  is 
so  unwieldy  that  I  have  had  serious  thoughts  of  hiring 
the  tower  of  the  Metropolitan  Life  Building  to  hold  it. 
Yet  how  kind  some  of  our  busiest  and  greatest  men 
have  been  to  the  wretches  who  "write  for  autographs" ; 
the  record  of  their  long-suffering  patience  would  fill 
another  large  volume. 

There  are  other  manifestations  of  the  autograph 
fever  almost  as  troublesome  as  the  familiar  prayer  for 
the  signature  of  the  person  addressed;  there  is,  for 
example,  the  begging  of  autographs  of  other  people 
which  the  victim  is  supposed  to  possess.  Hawthorne, 
when  applied  to  in  this  manner,  became  quite  fierce  and 
intimated  with  some  vigor  that  the  letters  of  his  friends 
were  valuable  to  him  and  not  to  be  parted  with.  The 


AT  THE  LIBRARY  TABLE  25 

venerable  Bishop  White  was  more  gentle,  when  beset 
by  that  pioneer  of  American  collectors,  Doctor  William 
B.  Sprague.  There  is  a  pleasant,  old  fashioned  dignity 
about  the  Bishop's  letter  which  tempts  me  to  reproduce 
it  from  the  original  now  lying  on  the  library  table.  It 
is  a  model,  and  if  I  ever  wrote  to  men  soliciting  gifts  of 
that  order — which  heaven  forbid! — it  is  just  the  sort 
of  reply  that  I  would  like  to  receive.  The  Bishop's  por 
traits  always  make  me  think  of  what  Aldrich  said  of 
Wordsworth — that  he  gave  him  the  impression  of 
wanting  milk:  with  his  benign  placidity  it  is  no  wonder 
that  he  lived  until  his  eighty-ninth  year. 

"Philada,  Feb.  12,  1823. 
Revd  &  dear  Sir: — 

I  have  received  your  Letter  of  ye  23d  of  January,  & 
am  disposed  to  take  Measures  for  compliance  with  your 
Request.  I  suppose  that  I  can  furnish  you  with  some 
signatures,  which  may  be  embraced  in  your  design ;  but, 
as  it  will  require  considerable  examination,  to  distinguish 
between  interesting  Letters  of  former  correspondents, 
&  others  which  I  can  have  no  particular  Reason  to 
retain,  I  must  defer  ye  Work,  until  I  have  less  of  press 
ing  Business  on  my  Hands  than  at  present. 
In  ye  mean  Time,  I  am,  respectfully 

Your  very  humble  servant, 

Wm:  White. 
Revd  Wm:  B.  Sprague, 
West  Springfield, 

Massachusetts." 

The  Bishop  was  doubtless  one  of  the  last  to  trans 
port  into  the  nineteenth  century  the  use  of  frequent 
capitals,  the  archaic  "ye"  and  the  quaint  long  "s's" 
which  are  not  "f's"  as  many  believe. 

The  subject  of  autographs  is  to  me  what  King 
Charles's  head  was  to  Mr.  Dick.  That  I  am  not  alone 


26  AT  THE  LIBRARY  TABLE 

in  my  infirmity  is  proved  by  a  letter  of  James  Freeman 
Clarke,  written  in  1878,  in  which  he  acknowledges  the 
receipt  of  a  catalogue  of  a  German  collection,  and  says, 
naively,  "Notwithstanding  my  professed  indifference  to 
any  autographs  except  those  of  the  Apostle  Paul, 
Alfred,  Charlemagne,  Joan  of  Arc,  Martin  Luther  and 
the  like,  I  confess  that  my  mouth  watered  at  the  sight 
of  so  many  of  them.  It  was  a  pleasure  even  to  read  the 
description  and  title".  These  wrords,  showing  that  his 
indifference  was  a  mere  pretense,  were  written  by  a  seri 
ous  and  scholarly  man,  famous  in  his  day  as  preacher, 
author  and  educator,  and  I  am  sure  that  even  his  little 
pretense  would  soon  have  been  abandoned  if  I  could 
only  have  been  honored  for  a  little  while  with  his  com 
pany  at  the  library  table. 

Almost  every  one  finds  it  hard  to  understand  as  he 
attains  the  period  when  juniors  say  to  him,  "Now,  at 
your  time  of  life" — a  form  of  expression  I  have  come 
to  loathe — that  he  is  really  no  longer — to  use  another 
wretched  locution, — "up  to  date".  I  am  beginning  to 
comprehend  the  feelings  of  some  of  the  excellent  be- 
wigged  old  gentlemen  of  the  seventeen  hundreds  whose 
lives  lapped  over  that  mysterious  one-hundredth  year 
which  is  just  like  any  other  year,  but  there  is  a  weird 
something  about  it,  indescribable,  impossible  of  defini 
tion,  which  makes  it  different.  I  am  certain  that  those 
of  us  who  awoke  on  the  morning  of  the  first  day  of 
January  in  the  year  of  grace  1900,  had  a  consciousness 
of  passing  into  a  new  age,  although — not  to  revive  the 
ancient  controversy  but  merely  to  assert  the  indisputable 
fact — the  new  century  did  not  begin  until  a  year  later. 
How  painfully  modern  Mr.  Wordsworth,  Mr.  Cole 
ridge  and  Mr.  Shelley  must  have  seemed  to  the  men 


AT  THE  LIBRARY  TABLE  27 

who  knew  so  well  their  Crabbe  and  their  Cowper.  It 
has  always  been  my  opinion  that  the  unfortunates  who 
happen  to  be  born  exactly  in  the  middle  of  a  century 
are  taken  at  an  unfair  advantage  by  those  who  arrive  in 
a  century's  closing  years  or  in  its  opening  days.  They 
grow  old-fashioned  so  much  sooner.  In  Comyn  Carr's 
book  of  reminiscences  (published  in  1908) — by  no 
means  one  of  those  dull  productions  about  which  we 
were  chatting  a  few  pages  back — he  says  heroically 
that  he  is  not  very  gravely  discouraged  by  occasion 
ally  finding  himself  ranked  as  a  champion  of  an  out 
worn  fashion,  but  he  groans  over  the  revelation  of  a 
"cultivated  young  writer  of  the  newer  school"  that 
'among  men  of  culture  Dickens  is  now  never  read  after 
the  age  of  fourteen!'  This  cultivated  young  writer — 
we  must  take  Mr.  Carr's  word  as  to  his  culture,  for 
otherwise  one  would  be  likely  to  consider  him  what 
Lord  Dundreary  called  "wather  an  ass" — must  have 
been  trying  to  impose  upon  the  credulous  old  gentlemen 
who  frankly  owns  that  he  was  born  in  the  misty  mid- 
region  of  1849.  What  pained  me  most  was  the  meek 
and  submissive  acquiescence  of  Carr  in  his  relegation  to 
the  category  of  back  numbers,  at  the  surely  not  venera 
ble  age  of  fifty-nine.  As  Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich  said 
the  day  after  his  birthday,  "It  is  unpleasant  to  be 
fifty-nine,  but  it  would  be  unpleasanter  not  to  be,  hav 
ing  got  started!"  I  insist,  however,  that  it  is  not 
enough  to  warrant  the  exile  of  any  ordinary  person  from 
the  realms  of  contemporaneous  interest.  Dickens,  Thack 
eray,  Hawthorne,  Tennyson,  Browning,  all  great  Vic 
torians,  if  an  American  may  be  reckoned  in  that  class, 
are  not,  I  venture  to  say,  as  obsolete  as  the  cultivated 
infant  would  have  us  believe ;  if  they  were,  there  would 
not  be  so  much  said  of  them  and  written  of  them  in 


28  AT  THE  LIBRARY  TABLE 

this  fast  aging  first  decade  of  the  twentieth  century. 
Returning  to  Dickens,  I  prefer  to  the  babe's  prattle  of 
Carr's  young  interlocutor,  the  dictum  of  Chesterton, 
when  he  tells  us  "that  Dickens  will  have  a  high  place 
in  permanent  literature  there  is,  I  imagine,  no  prig  sur 
viving  to  deny." 

In  a  time  so  remote  that  I  shrink  from  mentioning 
the  date  precisely,  I  overheard  a  young  prig  say  to  the 
feminine  companion  whom  he  was  escorting  to  her  home 
after  listening  to  a  lecture  by  Charles  Sumner,  "he 
suits  the  masses".  It  was  a  singularly  inept  remark  as 
applied  to  the  stilted  and  artificial  oratory  of  the  pom 
pous  Senator;  but  the  fact  that  "he  suits  the  masses" 
may  well  be  cited  to  warrant  the  assurance  of  the  last 
ing  quality  of  Dickens'  fame.  The  lesser  lights  are 
growing  pale  and  dim  in  comparison  with  his  and  with 
that  of  his  illustrious  compeer,  who  ranks  higher  per 
haps  in  the  estimation  of  the  "cultured"  but  no  higher 
in  the  favor  of  the  general.  Bulwer  Lytton,  Charlotte 
Bronte,  Trollope,  and  George  Eliot,  if  we  may  group 
together  stars  of  such  varying  magnitude,  shine  more 
feebly  than  they  did  while  they  were  in  the  full  blaze 
of  their  glory.  But  when  one  takes  from  the  shelf  or 
from  the  library  table  a  volume  of  Dickens  or  of 
Thackeray,  he  may  well  exclaim,  as  was  said  of  the 
Autobiography  of  Benvenuto  Cellini,  "This  is  no  book; 
who  touches  this,  touches  a  man." 

Many  of  us  still  retain  an  affection  for  Trollope, 
even  if  he  was,  as  some  recent  compilers  of  literary 
hand-books  say,  "one  of  the  most  boisterous,  tactless 
and  unmetaphysical  of  writing  men" — all  the  more 
precious  to  me  because  of  his  unmetaphysicality.  In 
novels  'a  has  metaphysics!'  If  it  be  true,  as  these  auto 
cratic  tyrants  of  taste  aver,  that  he  "keeps  his  nose  close 


AT  THE  LIBRARY  TABLE  29 

down,  dog-like,  to  the  prosaic  texture  of  life,"  he  pur 
sued  the  game  to  good  purpose.  To  all  lawyers,  he 
must  ever  be  dear  because  of  his  delightful  Old  Bailey 
character  of  Chaffanbrass;  to  all  the  clergy  he  must 
be  a  source  of  joy  for  his  innumerable  bishops,  rectors 
and  curates;  and  to  all  physicians  a  lovable  man  for 
Doctor  Thorne.  Was  he  not  as  much  unlike  Haw 
thorne  as  one  novelist  may  be  unlike  another,  yet  did 
not  Hawthorne  say  that  Trollope's  work  "suited"  him? 
"They  precisely  suit  my  taste"  wrote  the  author  of  the 
Scarlet  Letter,  "solid  and  substantial,  written  on  the 
strength  of  beef,  and  through  the  inspiration  of  ale,  and 
just  as  real  as  if  some  giant  had  hewn  a  great  lump  out 
of  the  earth  and  put  it  under  a  glass  case,  with  all  its 
inhabitants  going  about  their  daily  business  and  not 
suspecting  that  they  were  made  a  show  of."  Yet  in 
these  days  they  cannot  be  expected  to  compete  with 
such  illuminating  representations  of  real  life  as  may 
be  found  in  the  pages  of — let  us  say — Elinor  Glyn,  who 
manifestly  aspires  to  be  the  Aphra  Behn  of  modern 
literature. 

It  is  some  consolation  to  realize  that  we  commencing 
patriarchs  are  able  to  get  more  satisfaction  from  our 
comfortable  places  at  the  library  table  than  others  get 
from  the  seats  of  the  mighty  at  horse-shows,  bridge 
tournaments,  automobile  contests,  and  golf  competi 
tions.  An  enthusiastic  golfer  once  confided  to  me  that 
the  most  charming  adjunct  of  his  sport  was  the  shandy 
gaff  and  the  high  ball  which  otherwise  the  stern  decree 
of  the  medical  man  would  have  denied  to  him.  Let  us 
say  it  in  all  modesty  and  self-depreciation,  we  know  so 
much  more  than  is  known  by  the  modern  smooth-faced 
devotee  of  the  safety  razor,  who  freely  permits  the  un 
attractive  contour  of  his  mouth  to  betray  the  imperfec- 


30  AT  THE  LIBRARY  TABLE 

tions  of  his  character.  I  am  convinced  that  if  the  cus 
tomary  motor-car  fiend  would  shroud  his  expression  in 
hirsute  concealment  he  would  appear  far  less  fierce  and 
domineering.  If  language  was  given  to  us  to  conceal 
thought,  surely  beards  were  meant  to  hide  brutality. 
Even  these  young  people  will  come  in  time  to  the  con 
sciousness  of  their  present  ignorance  and  the  realization 
of  the  truth  that  men  learn  by  experience.  Aldrich — not 
Nelson,  the  tariff-king,  but  Thomas,  a  king  of  modern 
American  letters — said  "I  often  feel  sorry  for  ac 
tresses  who  are  always  too  old  to  play  Juliet  by  the 
time  they  have  learned  how  to  do  it.  I  know  how  to 
play  Hamlet  and  Romeo  now,  but  my  figure  doesn't 
fit  the  parts."  Sad  it  is  to  reflect  that  our  figures  are 
unfitted  for  the  roles  we  would  so  hugely  enjoy.  Pos 
sibly  it  would  be  better  for  us  if  we  ventured  more  in 
the  outer  world  and  spent  less  time  at  the  library  table ; 
but  we  cannot  always  bestride  the  galloping  horse  or 
trifle  with  the  fascinating  brassie.  It  will  be  only  a  few 
years  before  riders  and  golfers  alike  will  meet  us  in  the 
fields  where  we  will  all  be  reduced  to  socialistic  uni 
formity,  as  I  am  taught  to  believe.  Then,  perhaps,  I 
may  not  regret  that  I  yielded,  willingly  and  lovingly, 
to  the  temptations  of  the  library  table. 


THE  DELIBERATIONS  OF  A  DOFOB 

IN  the  neighboring  city  of  Chicago  they  have  a 
club  which  boasts  the  name  of  "The  Dofobs". 
It  is  not  a  pretty  name  but  it  means  much  to  the 
members.    Every  two  or  three  years  it  produces 
a  Year  Book  and  it  has  printed  "The  Love  Let 
ters  of  Nathaniel  Hawthorne",  a  copy  of  which  now 
and  then  appears  at  the  auction  block  and  is  sold  for  a 
fabulous  price.     Aside  from  such  occasional  diversions, 
these  people  indulge  in  pure  Dofobery,  which  is  not 
really  as  bad  as  it  sounds.     It  signifies  a  peculiar  rela 
tion  towards  books  and  bookish  things ;  not  a  mania  for 
books,  but  a  comfortable  enjoyment  of  them;  not  a 
craving  for  them  solely  because  they  happen  to  be  old, 
or  rare,  or  famous,  but  a  delight  in  them  and  in  the 
associations  which  cluster  about  them,  in  talking  about 
them,   in  scribbling   about   them,   in   amusing  oneself 
with  them.     It  does  not  require  much  sagacity  to  read 
between  the  letters  of  the  name;  for  most  people  know 

fwhat  "d.f."  stands  for,  and  "d.o.f."  is  only  a  variation. 
A  Dofob  does  not  trouble  himself  much  about  what 
others  think  of  him  or  of  his  favorite  pursuits,  because 
he  has  what  may  be  fairly  styled  the  true  Dofobian 
spirit  and  lives  up  to  the  immortal  definition  of  an  hon 
est  man  as  enunciated  by  the  philosopher  Timothy 
Toodles.  The  honest  man,  according  to  the  dictum 
of  that  profound  observer,  was  one  who  did  not  care  a 
small  Indian  copper  coin  of  trifling  value — that  is  to 
say,  a  dam;  although  I  think  the  philosopher  added 


32  AT  THE  LIBRARY  TABLE 

some  superfluous  words  about  not  caring  that  for  what 
sort  of  coat  a  man  wore  as  long  as  his  heart  was  in  the 
right  place.  This  sartorial  and  physiological  supple 
ment  is  immaterial,  for  the  truth  of  the  characterization 
lies  in  the  primary  expression:  perhaps  the  word  "con 
tinental"  prefixed  to  the  name  of  the  coin  would  impart 
to  the  definition  a  distinctively  American  flavor. 

Mr.  Growoll  in  his  interesting  account  of  American 
Book  Clubs  tells  of  a  number  of  these  associations, 
whose  laudable  purposes  are  grave,  serious  and  edify 
ing;  wrapped  in  a  mantle  of  dignity  which  is  most 
becoming  but  which  arouses  emotions  of  awe  rather  than 
of  sympathy.  The  Dofob  is  not  as  serious  as  the  Gro- 
lierite  or  the  Caxtonian.  The  fact  that  many  of  his 
fellow-beings  look  upon  him  as  an  individual  of  imper 
fect  intelligence  because  of  his  inordinate  interest  in 
books,  he  considers  to  be  equivalent  to  a  patent  of 
nobility;  for  if  he  loves  a  particular  book  with  a  passion 
transcending  all  others,  he  is  thereby  raised,  in  his  own 
estimation,  far  above  the  ordinary  level  of  mankind 
and  looks  down  from  empyrean  heights  on  those  who 
are  not  sufficiently  endowed  with  intellect  or  with 
intuition  to  comprehend  that  the  veritable  Dofob  is  the 
only  person  who  possesses  the  power  of  recognizing  at 
sight  the  very  best  and  worthiest  of  all  the  books  ever 
printed  since  the  days  of  Fust  and  Gutenberg.  With  a 
superb  self-appreciation  and  yet  with  the  greatest  affec 
tion  and  respect  for  my  companions  in  Dofobishness,  I 
own  that  in  the  depths  of  my  being  I  consider  no  indi 
vidual  Dofob  to  be  quite  as  praiseworthy,  deserving  and 
omniscient  as  I  am.  I  regard  myself  as  preeminently  a 
D.O.F.  and  all  that  those  letters  imply,  happy  in  the 
contentment  which  usually  results  from  absolute  self 
conceit.  Our  chief  pleasure  is  in  being  regarded  as  con- 


THE  DELIBERATIONS  OF  A  DOFOB     33 

firmed  and  irresponsible  cranks,  defying  the  contumely 
of  the  world,  hugging  to  our  bosoms  our  pet  delusions 
and  willing  to  let  other  Dofobs  hug  theirs  as  closely. 
I  might  however  be  jealous  if  any  one  of  them  should 
hug  too  long  and  affectionately  my  own  sweetheart 
book,  for  lovely  books  are  as  delightful  but  often  as 
untrustworthy  as  lovely  women.  They  are  apt  to  run 
off  with  some  millionaire.  I  am  sadly  conscious  of  the 
fact  that  the  much  prized  Davenant  folio  or  my  Beau 
mont  and  Fletcher  would  be  as  happy  in  the  arms  of 
another  as  they  are  in  my  own.  I  think  that  I  may  as 
well  abandon  the  metaphor  here  and  now,  for  1  may  be 
unwittingly  led  into  something  which  is  described  in  the 
catalogues  as  "curious"  or  "facetious".  The  man  who 
was  arrested  for  stealing  a  folio  Shakespeare  which  he 
was  lugging  home  after  the  fashion  of  Charles  Lamb 
and  who  pleaded  that  it  was  a  joke,  was  justly  reminded 
by  the  wise  magistrate  that  he  was  carrying  the  joke 
too  far.  (Cf.  Joseph  Miller's  Reports,  passim). 
There  is  such  a  thing  as  carrying  an  analogy  a  little  too 
far. 

Parenthetically,  one  is  moved  to  inquire  why  it  is 
that  we  Dofobs  who  write  about  books  are  accustomed 
to  adopt  a  style  of  labored  facetiousness,  for  books  are 
serious  things.  It  is  like  the  fashion  of  those  who  relate 
the  history  of  old  New  York  and  who  assume  the  tone 
of  "Knickerbocker" :  or  of  the  delineator  of  life  in  the 
far  west  who  cannot  help  imitating  Bret  Harte  as  the 
novelist  of  adventure  in  knighthood  days  imitates  Sir 
Walter  Scott.  Books  ought  to  be  worthy  of  pure  John 
sonese,  the  only  dialect  of  dignity  enough  to  deal  with 
so  solemn  a  subject. 

A  Dofob  would  not  assert  with  offensive  pride  that 
the  majority  of  people  in  this  prosperous  country  are 


34  AT  THE  LIBRARY  TABLE 

devoid  of  a  real  affection  for  books,  but  he  is  sorry  for 
some  of  those  who  fondly  imagine  that  they  are  book 
ish,  occasionally  reveal  their  inmost  thoughts  about 
books,  and  unconsciously  disclose  their  sad  incapacity 
to  understand  the  essential  nature  of  book-loving.  In 
the  matter  of  bindings,  for  example,  there  is  commonly 
a  lamentable  ignorance.  A  few  years  ago  I  fortunately 
discovered  a  book  printed  in  the  latter  part  of  the 
eighteenth  century,  produced  in  New  York,  and  bound 
in  the  fine  old  calf  of  the  period:  a  little  dilapidated  by 
the  ravages  of  time  and  the  bookseller's  shelves,  but 
by  no  means  in  a  state  of  ruin.  That  very  binding 
made  it  cost  me  a  goodly  sum,  for  the  contents  were  of 
no  general  interest;  the  book  itself,  the  entity,  binding 
and  all,  gave  it  value.  I  honored  that  book  and  after 
petting  it  properly,  gladly  gave  it  to  a  dear  old  gentle 
man,  the  only  man  in  the  city  who  knew  anything  about 
the  subject  dealt  with  in  the  book.  A  few  weeks  later 
he  proudly  brought  it  back  to  me  in  order  that  I  might 
inscribe  a  few  words  on  the  fly-leaf,  and  he  said  with 
considerable  satisfaction,  "You  see,  sir,  that  I  have  it 
neatly  rebound!"  And  so  he  had,  to  my  horror.  The 
splendid  old  calf — I  am  referring  to  the  binding — in 
which  a  Dofob  would  have  rejoiced  greatly,  had  been 
replaced  by  smug,  cheap  and  modern  cloth.  Then  it 
was  that  I  grieved  because  my  vocabulary  was  limited 
to  the  few  thousand  words  which  the  devotee  of  statis 
tics  allows  to  the  average  man.  All  the  languages  of 
Mezzofanti  could  not  have  done  justice  to  the  situa 
tion  ;  but  the  heroic  self-restraint  of  a  Dofob  came  into 
play  and  I  suffered  in  silence.  The  honest  but  misguided 
friend  will  never  know  the  full  extent  of  the  crime,  and 
as  the  book  is  more  to  his  liking  in  its  present  garb 
than  it  was  in  what  he  was  pleased  to  call  its  "shabby" 


THE  DELIBERATIONS  OF  A  DOFOB     35 

dress,  it  would  have  been  needlessly  cruel  to  undeceive 
him ;   and,  after  all,  the  matter  was  beyond  remedy. 

The  kind  friend  who  understands  the  intricacies  of 
the  stock-market  and  who  tells  me  much  that  I  care 
not  for,  about  my  garden,  where  I  should  buy  my 
clothes,  and  what  I  should  have  in  my  library;  who 
enlightens  me,  as  many  of  our  merciless  fellow-beings 
love  to  do,  about  all  questions  of  religion  or  of  poli 
tics;  the  dear  creature  who  is  fond  of  saying  "Now, 
what  you  ought  to  do  is" — whatever  in  the  plentitude 
of  his  self-contentment  he  ardently  believes  to  be  what 
every  one  else  should  do,  because  he  does  it;  this  one, 
I  say,  seldom  knows  anything  about  bindings.  "I  buy 
books  to  read",  he  brags,  as  if  one  could  not  read  com 
fortably  a  well-bound  book.  If  you  mention  Tout,  or 
Riviere,  or  Hayley,  or  Zaehnsdorf,  to  say  nothing  of 
Lortic,  Prideaux,  De  Sauty  or  Cobden-Sanderson,  he 
stares  at  you  with  glassy  eyes  of  indifference  and  per 
haps  he  calls  your  attention  to  a  Barrie  "edition  de 
looks",  or  to  some  of  the  paralyzing  productions  which 
the  simple-minded  are  deluded  into  purchasing  by  the 
influence  of  alluring  advertisements  and  insinuating 
circulars  designed  to  mislead  the  ambitious  but  unwary 
buyers  of  books  in  the  market-place. 

I  plead  guilty  to  the  charge  of  being  a  dreary  old 
fool  over  books,  but  chiefly  over  old  books,  for  they 
have  a  settled  and  permanent  character  which  no  one 
may  impeach.  We  may  be  tolerably  sure  about  them; 
they  are  generally  what  they  seem  to  be,  with  their 
broad  margins,  their  solid,  substantial  type,  and  their 
charming  air  of  dignity.  Most  of  the  books  of  our  day 
are  unworthy  of  absolute  confidence,  and  their  paper, 
their  binding,  and  their  typography  are  a  source  of  grief 


36  AT  THE  LIBRARY  TABLE 

to  the  judicious.  The  man  whose  literary  pabulum  is 
sufficiently  supplied  by  his  daily  newspaper  may  ask 
why  an  old  book,  with  aged  and  decayed  covers,  is  bet 
ter  than  a  new  one  with  that  outward  adornment  of 
gilt  which  some  publishers  delight  to  lavish  upon  us. 
The  sagacious  Dofob  will  not  undertake  the  task  of 
breaking  his  way  into  the  solid  density  of  such  a  mind 
or  of  explaining  to  him  the  reason,  for  the  game  is  not 
worth  the  candle.  When  I  was  a  boy  I  rashly  at 
tempted  to  convince  a  likely  colored  lad  that  slavery 
was  right  and  should  never  be  abolished,  but  to  my 
fervid  eloquence  he  invariably  responded  "Well,  I 
doan'  know  'bout  that".  It  was  an  effective  rejoinder 
and  I  now  believe  that  he  was  fairly  entitled  to  his 
name  of  Solomon.  The  smart  individual  of  these  times 
is  beyond  the  reach  of  argument,  and  all  one  can  do  is 
to  say  to  him,  "Go  to  your  newspaper,  buy  subscrip 
tion  editions  of  'standard  authors',  fill  your  shelves  with 
'the  best  sellers',  and  be  as  happy  as  you  may". 

But  notwithstanding  what  I  have  just  said,  it  is  a  fa 
vorite  fallacy  quite  prevalent  among  the  uninitiated  that 
a  book  must  be  old  in  order  to  attract  the  bibliolater. 
True,  as  Emily  Dickinson,  with  a  magnificent  disre 
gard  of  rhyme,  sings: 

"A  precious  mouldering  pleasure  'tis 

To  meet  an  antique  book, 
In  just  the  dress  his  century  wore: 
A  privilege,  I  think." 

A  Dofob,  however,  does  not  restrict  himself  to  such 
dolorous  delights  as  "mouldering  pleasures",  and  sees 
no  good  reason  why  he  should  not  be  fascinated  by 
something  fresh  from  a  good  press  as  well  as  by  what 
writers  about  books  are  addicted  to  calling  "musty 


THE  DELIBERATIONS  OF  A  DOFOB     37 

tomes".  A  "tome",  I  believe  has  come  to  mean  "a 
large  book",  but  a  Dofob  does  not  necessarily  prize  it 
above  a  slender  duodecimo,  any  more  than  he  would 
prefer  a  fat  friend  to  a  thin  one;  and  while  gray  hairs 
may  be  held  dear,  blond  locks  and  jetty  curls  may  be 
just  as  winning.  A  thoughtful  physician  once  told  me 
that  he  never  read  a  book  that  was  less  than  ten  years 
old;  he  was  not  and  could  never  be  a  Dofob.  The  rule 
may  be  well  enough  when  applied  to  fiction,  and  a  rigid 
observance  of  it  would  save  some  valuable  time;  but 
why  should  a  man  living  in  the  earliest  quarter  of  the 
last  century  have  delayed  for  a  decade  the  reading  of 
Shelley's  "Prometheus  Unbound",  or  "Rob  Roy",  or 
"The  Heart  of  Midlothian,"  or  the  two  precious 
volumes  of  Charles  Lamb's  works",  then  given  to  the 
world?  A  Dofob  cannot  be  persuaded  that  any  book 
should  be  neglected  because  it  is  old  or  condemned 
merely  because  it  is  new.  The  passion  for  rare  relics 
of  antiquity  is  one  not  difficult  to  comprehend,  but  it  is 
not  exclusive  of  a  passion  for  the  best  of  modern  books. 
Whether  the  date  upon  the  title  be  that  of  the  reign  of 
Elizabeth  or  of  the  time  of  Victoria  or  Edward,  "a 
book's  a  book  for  a'  that". 

There  is  a  good  deal  of  sameness  in  the  praises  of 
books  by  book-lovers.  In  his  Anthology  called  "Book 
Song",  Mr.  Gleeson  White  says:  "friends  that  never 
tire,  that  cannot  be  scorned  or  dallied  with,  is  an  idea 
that  recurs  constantly",  and  in  regard  to  those  eulogies 
of  special  volumes  with  which  most  of  us  are  familiar, 
he  remarks  justly,  "at  times  the  pride  of  ownership 
becomes  a  little  irritating  and  seems  deliberately  worded 
to  provoke  jealousy".  It  is  a  characteristic  of  Dofob- 
ishness  that  the  Dofob  does  not  indulge  in  panegyrics 
upon  his  own  property,  although  he  may  do  a  little  pri- 


38  AT  THE  LIBRARY  TABLE 

vate  bragging  among  intimates.  He  may  dote  upon  the 
book  of  another,  and  borrow  it  too,  giving  no  credence 
to  the  common  delusion  that  a  borrowed  book  is  never 
returned.  That  is  where  he  shows  his  superiority  over 
the  ordinary  man.  Nor  does  he  glorify  his  books  as 
"friends  who  never  tire".  I  would  not  care  much  for 
any  friend  who  was  so  devoid  of  human  qualities  as  not 
to  be  tiresome  now  and  then.  A  companion  who  was 
always  entertaining  would  be  a  cloying  sort  of  person, 
and  even  his  perfections  would  grow  wearisome  in  time. 
The  book  has  an  advantage  over  a  friend  in  this,  that  it 
may  be  thrown  in  a  corner,  or  thrust  in  a  cabinet,  or  ban 
ished  to  the  back-rows  when  its  allurements  begin  to 
pall,  and  if  it  experiences  any  sense  of  resentment  or 
mortification  at  such  a  summary  dismissal,  it  gives  no 
outward  or  visible  signs  of  dissatisfaction.  Moreover 
books  are  immensely  superior  to  human  friends  for  they 
never  "call  one  up"  on  the  telephone,  that  imperious 
invader  of  peace  and  comfort,  a  modern  affliction  more 
dreadful  even  than  the  motor-cycle,  that  Moloch  of  the 
highways,  because  it  has  a  wider  field  of  operation. 
One  may  have  some  respect  for  the  automobile,  king  of 
our  roads,  but  for  the  vulgar,  snorting  tyrant,  the  degra 
dation  of  a  graceful,  noiseless  bicycle,  naught  but  dis 
gust  and  horror.  No  self-respecting  horse  can  meet  it 
without  justifiable  rebellion.  I  have  found  it  the  Jug 
gernaut  of  New  Jersey. 

Few  comprehend  fully  the  bookishness  of  a  book,  its 
deserving  dignity,  and  its  peculiar  sensitiveness.  This 
man  will  deliberately  turn  down  the  corner  of  a  leaf, 
and  that  man  will  cut  the  sheets  with  rude,  iconoclastic 
finger  or  ruthlessly  bend  open  the  tender  volume  until 
its  back  is  well-nigh  broken.  There  ought  to  be  a  con- 


THE  DELIBERATIONS  OF  A  DOFOB     39 

stitutional  provision  against  cruel  and  unusual  punish 
ments  of  books,  for  surely  they  are  fellow-citizens  of 
worth  and  as  much  entitled  to  protection  as  the  red  men 
of  the  West  who  have  recently  been  added  to  the  num 
ber  of  our  masters,  or  the  voluble  and  dagger-loving 
emigrant  from  Italy  who  comes  to  us  with  droves  of  his 
kind  and  cheerfully  stabs  his  women  or  his  rivals  in  our 
public  streets.  I  shudder  when  I  remember  how  often 
I  have  beheld  the  shocking  spectacle  of  a  Philistine 
actually  pulling  a  book  from  the  shelf  by  the  top,  or 
wetting  his  fingers  as  he  turned  the  pages  of  a  sacred 
first  edition.  But  it  is  better  not  to  dwell  upon  such 
harrowing  subjects. 

However  boastful,  arrogant  and  censorious  these 
deliberations  may  appear,  I  protest  that  I  am  not  quite 
as  conceited  as  I  pretend  to  be.  The  bravado  is  assumed. 
I  am  really  humble,  conscious  of  my  limitations,  and 
profoundly  deferential  towards  the  experts  who  are 
masters  of  book-history  and  are  able  to  "collate",  while 
I  am,  by  natural  incapacity,  utterly  unable  to  share  in 
the  collation.  I  admire  these  mighty  men  afar  off,  and 
am  devoured  by  envy  of  their  learning.  Let  me  how 
ever  disclose  the  miserable  truth  that  I  find  old  Dibdin 
stupid,  that  I  am  dreadfully  bored  by  the  tedious  cata 
logues  given  to  us  from  time  to  time  by  some  of  our 
non-Dofobian  book-clubs,  and  that  in  fact  I  abhor  all 
catalogues  of  things  which  I  can  never  hope  to  call  my 
own.  It  may  be  a  mark  of  genuine  Dofobery  to  scorn 
scientific  book-description;  it  always  makes  me  uneasy 
and  discontented.  It  affects  me  much  in  the  same  way 
as  the  formal  phrases  of  what  the  companion  of  my 
childhood,  (bookishly  speaking)  Captain  Mayne  Reid, 
used  to  call  "the  closet  naturalists" — now  known  as 


40  AT  THE  LIBRARY  TABLE 

''nature  fakirs" — must  affect  men  who  pursue  the  tre 
mendous  teddy-bear  and  the  boracious  bob-cat  in  their 
native  wilds.  I  am  so  much  in  love  with  my  own  few 
books  that  I  would  no  more  dream  of  regarding  them 
from  the  cataloguer's  point  of  view  than  I  would  of 
measuring  my  Dulcinea's  features  in  order  to  ascertain 
whether  or  not  she  comes  up  to  the  standard  of  beauty 
prescribed  by  the  dull  and  pedantic  persons  who  reduce 
everything  to  formulas. 

Candidly,  anything  hereinbefore  contained  to  the 
contrary  notwithstanding,  I  believe  that  in  our  beloved 
country  there  are  more  enthusiastic  lovers  of  books  than 
may  be  found  in  any  other  land.  Yet,  if  I  am  not 
sadly  mistaken,  England  is  the  paradise  of  Dofobs.  She 
ought  to  be ;  she  is  so  much  older  than  we  are ;  she  was 
bookish  when  we  were  busy  in  building  an  empire  and 
boasted  more  bears  than  books.  It  makes  my  heart 
palpitate  when  I  glance  over  the  fascinating  lists  of 
Sotheby,  Wilkinson  and  Hodge,  and  see  what  the 
libraries  of  the  well-to-do  Britons  disgorge  without 
ostentation, — treasures  which  make  the  book-lover's 
soul  thrill  with  the  indescribable  tremor  which  only  a 
long-desired  book  can  bring.  I  find  myself  wondering 
whether  it  will  go  on  forever,  if  the  resources  of  the 
innumerable  "gentleman's  libraries"  in  England  will  be 
exhausted  in  our  own  time  at  least.  I  trust  not, 
although  I  fear  that  the  insatiable  demands  of  American 
buyers  may  ultimately  absorb  the  supply.  I  am  not  by 
any  means  an  Anglomaniac,  for  our  English  cousins  are 
fast  becoming  too  socialistic  for  my  taste,  but  surely 
their  auction-sales  are  more  attractive  than  ours,  and 
what  is  more  delectable  than  one  of  their  best  "book 
shops"?  Why  cannot  we  have  such  palaces  of  joy  as 


THE  DELIBERATIONS  OF  A  DOFOB     41 

those  which  may  be  found  on  the  Strand,  or  in  Picca 
dilly,  or  in  the  regions  adjacent  to  the  British  Museum, 
or  indeed  in  other  places  than  London,  where  a  Dofob 
may  discover  almost  everything  necessary  to  sate  his 
appetite.  I  am  affectionately  reminiscent  of  Maggs's. 
I  am  not  trying  to  advertise  Maggs's;  the  name  is  not 
beautiful,  euphonious,  or  seductive;  it  reminds  one  of 
the  nomenclature  of  Dickens.  But  the  shop  is  a  dream, 
the  managers  are  tactful  and  considerate,  and  there  one 
may  browse  undisturbed  and  uninterrupted,  with  no 
sorrow  but  that  which  comes  from  the  fact  that  while 
the  prices  are  low  when  compared  with  ours,  the  purse 
of  a  plutocrat  could  never  suffice  to  give  us  all  the  jewels 
preserved  in  the  coffers  of  those  polite  and  kindly  ven 
dors  of  dainties.  I  do  not  know  what  may  be  in  Chi 
cago,  but  in  New  York  we  have  scarcely  anything  as 
alluring  or  as  charming.  Why  are  we  denied  such  lux 
uries  ?  When  I  am  daring  enough  to  enter  the  precincts 
of  a  New  York  "book-store" — it  is  never  a  "shop" — I 
approach  the  majestic  salesman  with  fear  and  trembling, 
having  already  left  my  pocket-book  with  the  gentle  cab 
man.  Does  the  nobleman  lead  me  smilingly  to  a  quiet 
recess,  place  a  chair  and  a  table  at  my  disposal,  and 
with  tender  solicitude  submit  to  me  the  latest  acquisition, 
the  first  edition,  the  extra-illustrated  treasure,  the  auto 
graph  letter  or  manuscript  which  has  just  "come  in" 
and  has  not  yet  been  advertised  or  catalogued?  By  no 
means;  he  regards  me  with  the  same  contemptuous 
hauteur  which  is  displayed  by  the  clerk  of  a  popular 
hotel  when  I  register  my  name  and  plead  for  "a  room 
with  bath".  I  depart  from  the  chilly  halls  feeling  that 
I  ought  to  be  ashamed  for  having  disturbed  the  lofty 
serenity  of  the  supercilious  magnate.  They  do  these 
things  better  in  France  and  in  England :  better  in  almost 


42  AT  THE  LIBRARY  TABLE 

every  other  country  as  those  who  have  had  experience 
well  know.  They  are  content,  these  foreigners,  with 
moderate  profits.  It  is  true  that  an  American  book 
seller  is  obliged  to  pay  higher  rent  and  is  subjected  to 
heavier  expenses  because  of  the  extravagant  exactions 
of  almost  every  one  in  this  free  land  of  ours — except, 
of  course,  the  modest  and  diffident  lawyers.  Patriotism 
does  not  require  one  to  acquiesce  uncomplainingly  in  the 
exorbitant  prices  of  our  own  book  dealers.  Let  me 
however  be  fair  and  qualify  my  sweeping  assertions:  I 
know  a  few  very  decent  book-vendors  in  New  York  and 
in  Boston  who  want  to  be  reasonable  and  are  "not  so 
bad".  I  am  grateful  to  them  for  many  favors.  In  the 
words  of  Heron-Allen's  "Ballade  of  Olde  Books", 

"I've  haunted  Brentano  and  John  Delay, 
And  toyed  with  their  stories  of  France  so  free, 
At  Putnam's  and  Scribner's  from  day  to  day 
I've  flirted  with  Saltus  and  Roe  (E.  P.)  : 
But  weary  of  all,  I  have  turned  with  glee 
To  Bouton's  murk  shelves  with  their  wealth  untold, 
Yearning  for  Quaritch  in  Piccadilly 
Where  the  second-hand  books  are  bought  and  sold." 

This  would  be  more  accurate  if  some  of  the  names  were 
changed.  I  plead  not  guilty  to  Saltus  and  Roe,  and  I 
may  perhaps  be  forgiven  for  not  remembering  at  the 
moment  who  John  Delay  was  or  is. 

Why  do  we  allow  such  sordid  considerations  as  prices 
to  influence  us  in  any  way?  Most  of  us  Dofobs  are 
devoid  of  a  surplus  of  funds,  but  we  value  our  pos 
sessions  all  the  more  because  we  may  have  had  to  make 
some  sacrifices  to  secure  them.  If  we  were  indifferent 
about  cost,  we  would  lose  much  of  the  pleasure  of 
ownership.  I  well  remember  the  time  when  I  abstained 


THE  DELIBERATIONS  OF  A  DOFOB     43 

from  luncheon  in  order  to  buy  a  second-hand,  shabby 
volume  at  Leggatt's.  I  do  not  have  to  deny  now  my 
appetite  for  mid-day  food,  but  whenever  I  come  upon 
one  of  those  old  books  in  my  peregrinations  about  the 
library,  I  have  the  pleasant  little  throb  of  the  heart 
which  brings  back  to  me  the  ardor  of  youth,  and  those 
cheap  treasures  take  to  themselves  a  halo  which  tran 
scends  the  brilliancy  of  even  an  illuminated  missal  or  a 
noble  Caxton.  Those  long  cherished  companions  speak 
to  me  in  eloquence  scarcely  to  be  comprehended  by  one 
who  is  not  a  Do  fob  to  the  core. 

We  are  grateful  to  the  kindly  dealers  who  send  to  us 
catalogues  full  of  temptations  for  those  who  are  so 
ready  to  be  tempted.  With  James  Freeman  Clarke 
already  quoted,  we  repeat  that  "it  is  a  pleasure  even  to 
read  the  description  and  the  title",  and  often  like  Eu 
gene  Field  of  blessed  memory  we  mark  the  items  which 
are  too  bewitching  to  resist  as  if  we  were  going  to  ac 
quire  them  and  then  either  forget  about  them  or  resolve 
that  our  purse  cannot  afford  the  luxury,  afterwards  con 
fident  that  we  bought  them  and  searching  for  them  in 
vain  in  the  entrancing  regions  of  the  book-cases. 

Then  what  an  insane  joy  there  is  in  arranging  the 
volumes,  sometimes  lamenting  because  the  shelves  are 
not  exactly  adapted  to  the  association  of  fellow-books 
so  that  we  fear  that  they  will  not  be  as  friendly  one  to 
another  as  we  would  like  to  have  them.  If  any  one 
needs  occupation  for  a  rainy  day,  what  more  agreeable 
work  may  he  find  than  that  of  assorting  the  books,  so 
that  not  only  will  their  sky-line  be  less  jagged  than 
that  of  lower  New  York,  but  that  their  contents  may 
be  of  a  nature  to  make  them  as  sociable  as  they  ought 
to  be:  while  it  must  be  borne  in  mind  that  the  colors  of 
their  bindings  should  not  be  too  glaringly  inharmonious. 


44  AT  THE  LIBRARY  TABLE 

And  after  all  have  been  arranged,  it  is  the  joy  of  the 
genuine  Dofob  to  arrange  them  all  over  again.  There 
are  times  when  the  shelves  overflow,  and  then  comes  the 
question  of  a  new  book-case  and  a  still  graver  question 
as  to  where  it  shall  be  placed,  leading  to  a  further 
question  about  the  enlargement  of  the  house,  which 
should  be  constructed  on  the  Globe-Wernicke  princi 
ple,  for  the  main  use  of  a  house  is  to  store  books  in  it. 
But  there  comes  to  every  Dofob  the  thought  that  it 
will  not  be  long  before  he  must  leave  them.  What  is  to 
become  of  them?  No  one  will  ever  worship  them  as 
he  has  done  all  his  life.  They  are  interwoven  with  his 
existence  and  it  is  pitiful  to  think  that  he  must  be 
parted  from  them.  I  fear  that  in  the  world  of  the 
hereafter  there  may  be  no  books,  but  it  is  not  easy 
for  me  to  imagine  a  heaven  where  books  are  not.  I 
do  not  mean  to  be  irreverent  and  I  do  not  know  whether 
I  may  attain  even  a  bookless  heaven,  but  I  am  unortho 
dox  enough  to  own  that  I  might  prefer  a  bookish 
Hades. 


IN  A  LIBRARY  CORNER 

I   HATE  an  orderly  library.     It  has  a  formal  air 
which  repels  familiarity;    one  cannot  ramble 
in  it,  stroll  aimlessly  about  it,  come  upon  unex 
pected  "finds",  or  pluck  a  blossom  here  and 
there  without  fear  of  consequences.     It  is  as 
devoid  of  charm  as  the  stiff,  uncompromising  gardens 
of  the  eighteenth  century  which  arouse  ill  temper  by 
their  arrogant  right-angles.     The  card-catalogue  itself 
is  an  encourager  of  angry  passions;    and  glass  doors 
are  odiously  inhospitable.    What  care  I  if  dust  accumu 
late?     It  is  a  blessed  privilege  to  brush  it  off.     What 
need  have  I  of  a  card-index,  when  in  hunting  for  what 
I  want  I  may  discover  treasures  hitherto  lost  to  mem 
ory?     When  I  encounter  glass  doors,  those  grudging 
guardians  of  the  sanctuary,  I  long  to  fracture  the  panes 
with  one  mighty  kick,  for  they  are  offensive  with  their 
noli  me  tangere  exclusiveness.     I  want  my  books  where 
I  need  not  open  a  door  to  get  at  them  or  climb  a  lad 
der  to  reach  them. 

Not  that  I  am  averse  to  a  certain  method  of  arrange 
ment,  or  to  a  well-defined  color-scheme  in  the  matter  of 
bindings.  No  one  wishes  to  put  a  tiny  i6mo  by  the 
side  of  a  towering  quarto,  or  to  fill  the  lower  shelves 
with  duodecimos  and  the  upper  ones  with  folios;  nor 
does  any  one  desire  to  fret  his  eyes  by  massing  together 
colors  which  scream  at  each  other  and  disturb  the  peace. 
I  would  not  have  Petroleum  V.  Nasby  or  the  Orpheus 
C.  Kerr  Papers  elbowing  the  "voluminous  pages"  of 

45 


46  AT  THE  LIBRARY  TABLE 

Gibbon  or  the  serious  dignity  of  Grote;  but  Boswell 
and  Trevelyan  need  not  be  aggrieved  by  a  close  prox 
imity  to  such  inferior  productions  as  Collingwood's 
Life  of  Lewis  Carroll  or  Hallam  Tennyson's  disap 
pointing  Memoir  of  his  illustrious  father.  "There  are 
few  duller  biographies",  says  Augustine  Birrell,  "than 
those  written  by  wives,  secretaries,  or  other  domesti 
cated  creatures.  Neither  the  purr  of  the  hearth-rug 
nor  the  unemancipated  admiration  of  the  private  sec 
retary  should  be  allowed  to  dominate  a  biography". 
True,  Trevelyan  was  Macaulay's  nephew,  but  he  was 
barely  of  age  when  his  uncle  died,  and  had  not  yet  been 
wholly  "domesticated". 

It  is  almost  needless  to  say  that  these  wise  utterances 
are  not  intended  to  apply  to  public  libraries,  those  mau 
soleums  of  books,  where  one  may  "consult  volumes" 
but  never  really  read  them;  for  how  is  it  possible  for 
anybody  who  is  not  endowed  with  a  power  of  phenom 
enal  self-absorption,  to  forget  that  the  custodians,  al 
though  unseen,  are  perpetually  on  guard,  while  the 
enforced  silence  of  the  place  is  a  constant  temptation, 
well-nigh  irresistible,  to  arouse  the  echoes  with  defiant 
yells.  In  one  of  those  halls  of  grandeur  miscalled  "read 
ing  rooms",  I  am  always  reminded  of  "study  hour"  in 
school,  and  am  in  momentary  expectation  of  hearing 
some  one  ask  of  the  grim  presiding  functionary  the  old, 
familiar  question,  "Please,  sir,  may  I  go  out?" 

In  every  true  library,  there  are  sacred  corners.  In 
their  cosy  precincts  you  do  not  usually  come  upon  the 
dress-parade  volumes,  imposing  in  their  garb  of  pol 
ished  calf  or  of  velvety  morocco,  addressing  you  in 
solemn  accents,  reminding  you  of  the  aristocracy  of 
their  long  descent,  forbidding  you  to  disturb  them  by 


IN  A  LIBRARY  CORNER  47 

casual  pullings-down  or  thoughtless  turning  of  their 
chilly  pages.  Their  glacial  aspect  appals  the  ardent 
lover  and  freezes  the  founts  of  affection.  These  are  sel 
dom  to  be  found  in  corners;  they  demand  the  showy 
places  on  the  shelves  where  they  may  intimidate 
the  beholder  and  turn  him  away  abashed  at  their  im 
pressive  array.  They  are  as  much  shut  off  from  the  ad 
mirer's  fond  touch  as  are  the  alleged  crown-jewels  in  the 
Tower  or  the  priceless  manuscripts  in  the  British  Mu 
seum.  My  ideal  library  is  composed  chiefly  of  corners 
where  one  may  linger  in  morning-jacket  and  slippers, 
and  not  be  conscious  of  the  need  of  attiring  himself  in 
the  evening  garments  which  conventionality  decrees  to 
be  necessary  for  those  who  take  part  in  stately  func 
tions.  I  often  long  to  disarrange  the  symmetry  of 
some  "gentleman's  library",  just  as  when  reading  John 
son,  or  Gibbon,  or  Hamilton  W.  Mabie  I  have  a  fiend 
ish  propensity  to  split  an  infinitive  .or  to  end  a  sentence 
with  a  preposition. 

Now  if  I  were  bent  on  making  a  foolish  pretense  of 
what  is  known  as  "good  taste",  which  I  have  no  right 
or  disposition  to  boast  of,  I  would  assert  untruthfully, 
but  no  one  could  disprove  it,  that  in  these  snug  retreats 
I  feast  upon  "The  Proficience  and  Advancement  of 
Learning",  or  Evelyn's  Diary,  or  Pepys,  or  Sir  Thomas 
Browne,  or  Elia.  Every  one  who  affects  a  literary 
"pose"  is  given  to  praising  Elia;  and  there  are  few  more 
precious  books  in  the  world.  Yet  if  those  immortal 
essays  should  appear  to-day  for  the  first  time,  they 
would  have  only  what  the  newspapers  style  a  "limited 
circulation".  A  dinosaurus  would  have  just  as  much 
popularity  in  the  annual  Horse  Show,  for  they  belong 
to  the  era  of  the  stage-coach  when  people  did  not  "do 
the  Lake  Country"  in  an  escorted  tour  on  a  Hodgman 


48  AT  THE  LIBRARY  TABLE 

car,  and  the  Venetian  gondola  had  not  been  crowded  out 
of  the  Grand  Canal  by  snorting  motor-boats ;  when  there 
were  great  men;  poets,  novelists,  essayists,  historians 
and  statesmen.  To  the  question,  "Why  have  we  no 
great  men?"  Mr.  Chesterton  rejects  the  answer  that 
it  is  because  of  "advertisement,  cigarette  smoking,  the 
decay  of  religion,  the  decay  of  agriculture,  too  much 
humanitarianism,  too  little  humanitarianism,  the  fact 
that  people  are  educated  insufficiently,  the  fact  that  they 
are  educated  at  all".  But  his  own  answer,  "We  have  no 
great  men  chiefly  because  we  are  always  looking  for 
them",  may  be  smart,  but  it  is  not  convincing.  The  fact 
is  that  we  do  not  have  great  men  chiefly  because  we  think 
we  have  no  need  of  them. 

The  craze  for  equality  has  so  possessed  our  minds 
that  if  one  of  us  is  presumptuous  enough  to  thrust  his 
head  above  the  struggling  mob  that  surrounds  him,  we 
set  to  work  with  one  accord  to  pull  him  down,  for  who 
is  he,  forsooth,  that  he  should  assume  to  know  more 
than  we  do  or  to  be  more  than  we  are?  In  the  days 
when  the  ignorant  and  the  mediocre  had  not  come  to 
understand  the  might  of  their  power,  there  were  lead 
ers;  but  however  greatly  they  may  need  wise  leaders 
now,  they  have  become  the  leaders  themselves  and  the 
ambitious  are  only  astute  and  adroit  followers.  The 
state  of  the  times  is  reflected  in  our  literature;  and  as 
every  man  has  arrived  at  the  belief  that  he  is  an  infalli 
ble  judge  upon  questions  of  politics  and  of  government, 
so  he  fancies  that  he  is  divinely  endowed  as  a  judge  of 
all  things  literary.  Thus  it  has  come  to  pass  that  the 
guerdon  of  fame  is  bestowed,  not  upon  the  best  book 
but  upon  the  best  seller.  It  has  also  come  to  pass  that 
the  only  individual  who  is  allowed  to  dominate  his  race 
is  the  editor  of  a  newspaper.  Great  is  the  power  of 


IN  A  LIBRARY  CORNER  49 

humbug;  there  is  but  one  god,  which  is  "the  people", — 
and  the  editor  is  his  prophet.  Every  one  from  the 
cardinal  to  the  curate,  from  the  President  to  the  post 
master,  trembles  before  the  majesty  of  a  malicious  mon 
key  who  by  some  mischance  has  contrived  to  get  hold 
of  a  printing-press;  for  his  penny  compendium  of  slan 
der  and  of  crimes  reaches  the  sons  of  manual  toil  who 
go  to  their  work  in  the  early  morning,  filled  with  envy 
of  the  well-to-do,  grumbling  at  the  fate  which  condemns 
them  to  labor  while  men  whom  they  regard  as  no  better 
than  themselves  enjoy  sports  and  luxuries  denied  to 
them,  ready  to  drink  in  the  flattery  addressed  to  them 
and  rejoicing  in  the  bitterest  of  assaults  upon  wealth  and 
vested  interests.  No  one  is  great  to  them  except  the 
crafty  demagogue  who  ministers  to  their  self-  import 
ance. 

The  mild  and  gentle  Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich  said  in 
a  moment  of  unusual  irritation:  "American  newspapers 
are  fearfully  and  wonderfully  made.  If  about  twenty 
thousand  of  them  could  be  suppressed,  the  average 
decency  of  the  world  would  be  increased  from  twenty- 
five  to  fifty  per  cent."  This  is  no  new  cry;  but  it  does 
not  avail  much  to  us  soured  old  sufferers  from  their 
multitudinous  lies  and  libels,  to  retire  to  our  library 
corners  and  scold  at  them.  In  spite  of  our  complaints, 
we  think  it  a  hardship  if  we  cannot  peer  at  them  through 
our  glasses  over  the  matutinal  coffee  and  enjoy  their  lies 
— about  other  people. 

Great  is  the  power  of  humbug,  I  repeat,  with  an  air 
of  imparting  a  new  and  important  truth.  I  have  just 
been  reading — in  a  corner — a  sketch  of  James  Kent  by 
Mr.  James  Brown  Scott.  He  says  of  Charles  Sumner 
that  he,  said  Sumner,  was  "an  ornament  of  the  bar  as 
he  later  was  an  ornament  of  the  Senate".  But  Sumner 


50  AT  THE  LIBRARY  TABLE 

was  not  a  real  lawyer;  he  was  not  fitted  for  the  conflicts 
of  the  bar.  There  is  nothing  like  the  battles  of  the  law 
to  take  the  vanity  and  pomposity  out  of  a  man.  I  do 
not  wish  to  be  understood  as  saying  that  there  are  no 
vain  or  pompous  members  of  the  legal  profession,  but 
they  seldom  win  much  respect  or  distinction.  I  doubt 
even  if  Sumner  can  justly  be  called  "an  ornament  of  the 
Senate".  He  never  did  anything,  he  never  originated 
anything;  he  only  "orated",  so  that  in  a  sense  he  may 
have  been  ornamental;  surely  not  useful.  His  speeches 
were  carefully  prepared  and  rehearsed;  he  was  weak 
in  debate.  If  any  one  cares  to  waste  time  upon  the 
speech  for  which  he  was  caned  by  Preston  Brooks,  he 
will  be  amazed  at  the  scurrility  of  the  language  and 
the  indecency  of  the  vituperation.  It  is  hard  to  believe 
that  a  man  of  his  stalwart  frame  could  be  permanently 
injured  by  the  blows  of  a  light  stick  such  as  the  one 
which  Brooks  used  that  day.  The  assault  was  a 
wicked  performance,  but  Washington  laughed  in  its 
sleeve  over  the  outcry  which  the  castigated  one 
made  about  it.  In  those  days  the  anti-slavery  speakers 
were  hunting  for  martyrdom,  and  Sumner  made  the 
most  of  his  beating.  In  course  of  time,  he  was  sup 
planted,  as  a  martyr,  by  the  deified  horse-thief  and 
murderer,  John  Brown.  When  the  Senator  assumed 
to  dictate  to  Grant,  he  found  his  well-merited  fate,  and 
he  has  passed  into  oblivion.  His  useful,  modest,  hard 
working  colleague,  Henry  Wilson,  as  earnest  and 
enthusiastic  an  opponent  of  slavery  as  Sumner  was,  is 
far  better  entitled  to  be  called  "an  ornament  of  the  Sen 
ate"  than  his  more  cultured  but  less  effective  associate. 

Down  in  a  quiet  corner  hides  an  humble  cloth-clad 
little   book   which   scarcely   any  one   cares   for   except 


IN  A  LIBRARY  CORNER  51 

myself,  and  its  interest  to  me  comes  less  from  its  mild 
satire  than  from  my  affection  for  its  author.  "Salander 
and  the  Dragon,  by  Frederick  William  Shelton,  M.A. 
Rector  of  St.  John's  Church,  Huntington,  N.  Y.",  with 
its  Goodman,  its  Duke  d'Envy,  its  Gudneiburud, 
Drownthort,  and  all  the  other  parodies  of  Bunyan's 
nomenclature,  makes  dull  reading  for  the  present  gen 
eration,  and  it  may  be  that  my  liking  for  it  is  only  a 
form  of  perverse  vanity.  As  I  glance  over  the  faded 
leaves,  they  bring  before  me  the  gentle,  scholarly  Shel 
ton,  who  had  been  my  father's  class-mate  at  Princeton — 
delightfully  old-fashioned  in  the  time  when  I  had  a 
boyish  acquaintance  with  him.  He  was  quite  like  his 
books,  small,  decorous,  with  a  gleam  of  the  humorous 
mingled  with  reflective  sadness.  I  can  fancy  his  shudder 
of  dismay  over  most  of  our  present-day  sensational, 
highly-colored  "literature"  falsely  so-called.  I  never 
knew  more  than  two  persons  who  had  ever  read  "Sal 
ander".  But  it  aroused  my  indignation  a  year  or  two 
ago  to  read  in  a  flippant  review  published  in  one  of  our 
magazines,  a  contemptuous  reference  to  Doctor  Shelton, 
whose  nature  and  whose  style  were  too  sweet  and  pure 
for  the  taste  of  the  pert,  feminine  scribbler. 

Near  the  unoffending  duodecimo  is  the  well-beloved 
"Squibob  Papers",  not  as  good  as  the  immortal  "Phoe- 
nixiana"  which  George  Derby's  friends  induced  him  to 
publish  in  the  middle  fifties,  a  famous  precursor  of  our 
later  and  more  elaborate  "books  of  American  humor". 
My  copy  is  not  of  the  issue  of  1859,  but  one  which  was 
printed  by  Carleton  in  1865,  after  the  author's  death. 
As  most  people  know,  poor  Derby,  who  died  at  thirty- 
eight,  was  an  officer  of  the  Corps  of  Topographical  En 
gineers,  or,  in  his  own  words,  ua  Topographical  Engi 
neer  who  constantly  wears  a  citizen's  dress,  for  fear 


52  AT  THE  LIBRARY  TABLE 

some  one  will  find  it  out."  Comparing  them  with  the 
Engineers,  he  remarked  that  "the  Corps  of  Topo 
graphical  Engineers  was  only  formed  in  1838,  while 
the  Engineers  date  from  the  time  when  Noah,  sick  of 
the  sea,  landed  and  threw  up  a  field-work  on  Mount 
Ararat".  It  was  an  odd  training  school  for  a  humor 
ist,  but  Derby  did  not  need  much  training. 

His  "great  railroad  project"  of  "The  Belvidere  and 
Behrings'  Straits  Union  Railroad",  with  its  branches  to 
the  North  Pole  "to  get  the  ice  trade",  to  Kamchatka 
"to  secure  the  seal  trade  for  the  Calcutta  market",  and 
to  Cochin  China  "to  secure  the  fowl  trade",  reads  very 
much  like  the  prospectus  of  an  exceeding'y  modern  en 
terprise.  His  "Sewing  Machine  with  Feline  Attach 
ment",  by  which  a  cat,  induced  by  a  suspended  mouse, 
operates  the  mechanism,  is  an  ingenious  device,  and  he 
records  that  he  "has  seen  one  cat  (a  tortoise-shell)  of 
so  ardent  and  unwearying  disposition,  that  she  made 
eighteen  pairs  of  men's  pantaloons,  two  dozen  shirts, 
and  seven  stitched  shirts,  before  she  lay  down  ex 
hausted".  The  Fourth  of  July  Oration,  commemorat 
ing  our  forefathers  who  "planted  corn  and  built  houses, 
killed  the  Indians,  hung  the  Quakers  and  Baptists, 
burned  the  witches  and  were  very  happy  and  comforta 
ble  indeed,  and  fought  the  batt'e  named  'the  battle  of 
Bunker  Hill',  on  account  of  its  not  having  occurred  on 
a  hill  of  that  name",  should  never  be  forgotten  if  only 
for  the  story  of  the  boy  who  picked  his  nose  on  the 
Fourth  of  July  because  it  was  Independence  Day.  Not 
very  refined  fun,  you  may  say,  but  food  for  laughter, 
and  with  no  taint  of  a  peculiar  kind  of  vulgarity  which 
mars  the  fun  of  certain  more  classic  fooling. 

Among  the  tenants  of  the  corner  is  a  cheap  and  shab 
by  American  edition,  in  two  fat,  awkward  volumes,  of 


IN  A  LIBRARY  CORNER  53 

my  pet  novel,  "Ten  Thousand  a  Year",  much  pawed 
over  and  alas!  dog's  eared;  while  the  first  EngHsh 
edition,  in  three  volumes,  (Blackwood,  1841,  "original 
cloth"),  is  seldom  aroused  from  its  serene  repose  on  a 
conspicuous  shelf.  Ten  thousand  pounds  a  year  then 
stood  for  colossal  wealth;  and  when  my  boyish  mind 
first  applied  itself  to  the  study  of  the  fitful  fortunes  of 
Tittlebat  Titmouse,  that  income  still  appeared  to  repre 
sent  riches  beyond  the  dreams  of  avarice.  When  I  be 
gan  the  study  of  law,  I  was  one  day  toiling  over  Kent's 
Commentaries,  and  the  senior  partner,  bluff  and  kindly 
Aaron  J.  Vanderpoel,  came  upon  me  suddenly,  crying 
out  "What  are  you  reading,  young  man?"  I  con 
fessed,  with  the  conscious  pride  which  one  feels  when 
detected  in  doing  something  supposed  to  be  virtuous, 
that  I  was  reading  Kent.  "Don't  read  Kent!"  he 
shouted,  "read  'Ten  Thousand  a  Year'  ".  Perhaps  his 
advice  was  good;  at  all  events  I  took  it,  and  I  did  not 
tell  him  that  I  knew  it  already  from  cover  to  cover. 

It  is  the  best  "lawyer's  novel"  ever  written,  even  if 
it  is  full  of  doubtful  law.  For  the  hundredth  time  you 
will  follow  with  eager  interest  the  progress  of  the  great 
suit  of  Doe  ex  dem.  Titmouse  vs.  Jolter,  and  await  in 
breathless  suspense  the  momentous  decision  of  Lord 
Widdrington  upon  the  question  of  the  admission  of 
that  famous  deed  with  the  erasure,  however  well  you 
may  know  that  he  is  sure  to  exclude  it;  a  ruling  unde 
niably  wrong,  but  if  his  lordship  had  held  otherwise 
the  story  must  have  come  to  a  sudden  and  ignominious 
close  at  the  end  of  the  first  volume.  This  would  have 
been  a  calamity,  although  the  Aubreys  and  their  woes 
become  quite  fatiguing  and  Oily  Gammon  turns  out  to 
be  "more  kinds  of  a  villain"  than  is  to  be  met  with  in 
actual  life.  He  deserved  a  different  fate;  he  ought  to 


54  AT  THE  LIBRARY  TABLE 

have  married  Kate  Aubrey,  and  lived  unhappily  ever 
afterwards.  I  refuse  to  believe  that  he  was  guilty  of  the 
meaner  crimes  attributed  to  him  in  the  account  of  his 
dying  moments;  but  Warren  probably  thought  that  as 
Gammon  had  to  die,  he  might  as  well  depart  this  life 
in  the  odor  of  perfect  villainy.  He,  Gammon,  was  a 
liar,  thief,  perjurer,  forger — almost  a  murderer;  but 
his  crowning  act  of  infamy  was  to  devise  an  elaborate 
method  of  suicide  to  defraud  a  life-insurance  company. 
If  he  had  lived  a  little  longer,  he  might  have  been  found 
giving  a  rebate  or  riding  on  a  Third  Avenue  car  with 
out  paying  his  fare. 

Warren  had  about  all  the  worst  faults  chargeable 
against  a  novelist,  yet  the  book  has  life.  It  may  not  be 
found  in  the  drawing  room  or  on  my  lady's  table,  or 
in  the  languid  hands  of  those  who  continually  do  recline 
on  the  sunny  side  of  transatlantic  steamers,  but  it  en 
dures.  The  account  of  the  election  in  which,  to  my 
secret  satisfaction,  Titmouse  defeats  Mr.  Delamere,  is 
far  better  than  Dickens's  attempt  to  describe  the  Eatan- 
swill  contest  and  fully  as  good  as  Trollope's  effort  in 
the  same  field.  Mr.  Delamere,  one  of  those  impeccable 
figureheads  created  chiefly  for  the  purpose  of  provid 
ing  a  husband  for  the  equally  impeccable  young  female 
angel  who  is  so  transcendently  pure  that  she  blushes 
deeply  at  the  mere  thought  of  a  lover,  oblivious  of  the 
fact  that  her  adored  parents  must  at  some  time  have 
surrendered  shamelessly  to  the  sway  of  Cupid,  is  almost 
too  noble  for  words;  and  as  for  Charles  Aubrey,  did 
not  Thackeray  pronounce  him  to  be  the  greatest  of  all 
snobs?  But  he  is  such  a  precious  snob. 

Yet  after  we  leave  the  nobility  and  gentry  we  find 
an  abundance  of  humanity  in  the  numerous  "characters" 
who  throng  the  pages,  particularly  among  the  lawyers. 


IN  A  LIBRARY  CORNER  55 

They  would  be  just  as  well  off  without  their  impossible 
names  which  give  them  an  air  of  unreality.  But  at  that 
time  it  was  a  favorite  custom  of  fiction-writers  to  label 
their  personages  with  tags,  and  if  Dickens  may  be 
pardoned  for  his  Verisophts  and  his  Gradgrinds,  and 
Thackeray  for  Mr.  Deuceace,  Warren  may  surely  be 
forgiven  for  Quicksilver,  Subtle,  Tag-rag  and  Going- 
Gone  ;  and  the  world  will  continue  to  apply  the  name  of 
"Quirk,  Gammon  and  Snap"  to  attorneys'  firms  as  long 
as  we  have  those  useful  adjuncts  of  civilization.  In  my 
time  I  have  known  several  Quirks,  not  a  few  Gam 
mons,  and  many  Snaps.  Snap  is  a  sort  of  lawyer  whom 
only  a  lawyer  could  conceive  of;  and  Gammon,  strip 
ped  of  the  basest  of  his  qualities,  may  be  encountered  a 
dozen  times  a  day  between  the  Court  House  and  the 
Battery. 

Not  far  removed  from  the  company  of  Titmouse  and 
Gammon,  is  "Trilby";  the  copy  with  the  autograph 
letter  of  Du  Maurier  to  Osgood,  not  the  elaborately 
bound  assemblage  of  the  original  Harper  chapters, 
whose  illustrations  are  so  much  more  attractive  than 
those  in  the  later-published  book,  with  the  cancelled 
pages  about  Lorrimer  and  Joe  Sibley  which  so  offended 
the  shrinking,  diffident  Whistler  that  they  were  remorse 
lessly  cut  out — Whistler,  who  never  hurt  the  feelings 
of  a  friend  or  learned  "the  gentle  art  of  making  ene 
mies".  Then  there  are  "The  Bab  Ballads",  and  Lear's 
"Nonsense  Book,"  and  Alice,  my  Lady  of  Wonderland, 
and  my  Lady  of  Looking  Glass  country,  whom  so  many 
adore  and  so  many  fail  to  comprehend.  For  there  are 
myriads  who,  like  the  little  Scotch  lad,  can  see  nothing 
in  Carroll's  playful  extravagances  except  that  they  con 
tain  "a  great  deal  of  feection". 

It  is  sad  that  the  modern  disposition  to  overdo  every- 


56  AT  THE  LIBRARY  TABLE 

thing  should  have  so  trampled  upon  such  a  delicious 
thing  as  "Trilby";  made  it  so  common;  worn  it  thread 
bare  ;  and  when  it  was  no  longer  fresh,  thrown  it  aside 
like  a  shattered  toy.  It  is  a  manifestation  of  the  child 
ishness  of  the  multitude  which  goes  wild  over  some  tem 
porary  hero  and  then  lets  him  fall  into  the  limbo  of  the 
forgotten  when  there  are  none  so  poor  to  do  him  rever 
ence.  There  must  be  some  magical  elixir  in  "Pinafore", 
for  although  thirty  years  have  gone  by  since  it  sprang 
into  universal  favor,  it  still  survives,  is  laughed  at  and 
admired,  and  is  even  quoted  in  after-dinner  speeches. 
The  mention  of  these  speeches,  without  which  no  public 
or  semi-public  dinner  is  considered  to  be  worth  eating, 
brings  painful  reflections.  We  seem  to  be  losing  the 
art;  perhaps  we  are  approaching  the  heaviness  and 
prosiness  of  our  English  cousins  on  such  occasions.  It 
is  a  melancholy  thought  that  some  reformers  have  intro 
duced  the  plan  of  hearing  the  speeches  first  and  devour 
ing  the  dinner  afterwards;  and  very  lately  diners  were 
encouraged  by  the  engraved  announcement  on  the  cards 
of  invitation,  that  there  would  be  "only  six  speeches, 
strictly  limited  to  ten  minutes  each".  Yet,  as  a  rule, 
the  speakers  are  not  burning  for  an  opportunity  to  talk; 
they  may  truly  say,  as  a  beloved  college  president  was 
wont  to  remark  to  a  disorderly  class,  disturbing  his 
lecture  with  horse-play,  "Young  men,  this  may  be  a  bore 
to  you  but  it  is  infinitely  more  of  a  bore  to  me."  There 
is  difficulty  in  adjusting  a  speech  to  the  tastes  of  the 
present-day  dinner  crowds;  the  time  of  the  unending 
stream  of  anecdotes  has  passed,  with  its  everlasting 
"that  reminds  me",  and  it  seems  to  be  succeeded  by  an 
epidemic  of  the  serious,  which  is  not  easily  dealt  with 
in  the  presence  of  a  mob  flushed  with  champagne  and 
shrouded  in  tobacco-smoke.  Some  resort  to  epigram, 


IN  A  LIBRARY  CORNER  57 

but  in  fifteen  minutes  the  epigram  begins  to  degenerate 
into  jerky  twaddle  and  palls  upon  the  jaded  appetite. 
Now  and  again  the  orator  exhibits  an  inclination  to  do 
what  our  newspapers  are  forever  howling  about — to 
"probe"  something  or  somebody;  but  probing  is  always 
a  painful  operation  and  frequently  does  much  more 
harm  than  good.  It  is  not  given  to  many  to  be  really 
entertaining  in  discourse,  so  that  our  few  entertainers 
are  sadly  overworked.  This'  unhappy  condition  of 
affairs  has  brought  us  to  the  latest  stage  of  infamy, 
when  post-prandial  talkers  demand  pay  for  their 
performances :  and  we  may  expect  to  see  the  day  or  the 
night,  when  the  star  of  the  evening  will  refuse  to  rise  in 
his  place  and  do  his  act  until  the  pecuniary  reward  has 
been  tendered  to  him  in  specie,  bills,  or  certified  cheque. 
Fancy  the  toast-master's  emotions  if  as  he  begins  the 
familiar  "We  have  with  us  to-night"  he  is  interrupted 
by  a  cry  from  the  hired  guest,  "You're  a  saxpence 
short!" 

Much  unlike  the  books  of  which  we  have  been  speak 
ing,  but  in  its  own  way  as  attractive,  is  Mr.  Atlay's 
"Victorian  Chancellors",  a  collection  of  model  biogra 
phies,  of  interest  not  only  to  lawyers  but  to  lovers  of 
history.  Atlay  makes  no  claim  that  his  undertaking  is 
to  be  regarded  as  a  continuation  of  Lord  Campbell's 
"Lives",  and  his  methods  are  absolutely  different  from 
those  of  Campbell,  who  is  amusing  but  so  palpably 
unfair  and  often  inaccurate  that  full  faith  and  credit 
cannot  be  given  to  him.  I  regret  that  the  "Lives  of  the 
Chief  Justices  of  the  Supreme  Court"  have  not  been 
written  by  some  competent  lawyer  of  our  time,  with 
sufficient  leisure  and  a  taste  for.  authorship,  as  fair  and 
free  from  personal  prejudice  as  Atlay's  work  proves 
him  to  be.  The  "Lives"  that  have  hitherto  appeared 


58  AT  THE  LIBRARY  TABLE 

are  by  no  means  satisfactory.  Flanders,  Van  Sant- 
voord,  and  Tyler,  the  biographer  of  Roger  Brooke 
Taney,  are  painstaking  enough  and  undoubtedly  con 
scientious,  but  they  are  of  the  old  school,  dull  in  style, 
with  little  or  no  sense  of  historical  perspective.  The 
biographies  of  Jay  and  of  Marshall  are  not  adequate; 
they  do  not  reveal  the  men  to  us  with  that  distinctness 
which  is  necessary  to  hold  the  reader's  attention.  The 
"Lives"  of  Chase  are  weak  and  flimsy.  Some  of  the 
great  Associate  Justices  might  be  included  in  the  series 
— Story,  Curtis,  Nelson,  Miller;  and  perhaps  others — 
famous  for  long  and  faithful  judicial  service  if  not  for 
surpassing  legal  ability.  Somehow  our  modern  writers 
are  not  at  their  best  in  biography;  those  of  sufficient 
skill  and  industry,  like  Henry  Adams  and  James  Ford 
Rhodes,  are  led  to  devote  themselves  to  general  history 
which  affords  a  broader  field.  Moreover,  a  Justice  of 
the  Supreme  Court  is  not  as  closely  identified  with  poli 
tics  and  the  administration  of  the  government  as  an 
English  Chancellor  usually  is,  and  the  dry  technical 
details  of  the  career  of  a  mere  lawyer  are  not  tempting 
to  the  man  of  letters. 

There  is  a  different  corner,  in  a  darker  part  of  the 
library,  where  one  may  well  linger  when  the  wind  is  in 
the  east  and  teeth  are  in  need  of  gnashing.  One  of  the 
discomforts  of  advanced  years  is  that  you  are  unable 
to  do  any  gnashing  without  inflicting  more  pain  upon 
the  gnasher  than  is  actually  worth  while.  In  this  corner 
are  gathered  together  some  of  the  few  books  which 
cannot  be  loved ;  wall-flowers  of  literature,  which  never 
made  the  bookman's  heart  palpitate  with  any  fond  emo 
tion. 

Here  let  us  approach  with  hesitation  and  timidity, 


IN  A  LIBRARY  CORNER  59 

for  however  dry  and  disagreeable  a  book  may  be,  still 
it  is  a  book.  "Somebody  loved  it".  The  man  who 
evolved  it,  who  brought  it  forth,  who  labored  over  it, 
who  corrected  the  proofs,  was  pleased  with  it ;  deformed 
and  misshapen  though  it  may  be  in  the  eyes  of  oth 
ers,  it  was  beautiful  to  him.  Moreover,  much  may 
after  all  be  learned  from  the  poorest  of  books;  and  the 
food  from  which  I  would  turn  in  scorn,  may  to  another 
be  palatable.  Therefore  I  wish  it  to  be  clearly  under 
stood  that  in  making  what  are  called  "derogatory" 
remarks  about  any  book,  I  am  guiltless  of  the  offence 
of  setting  up  my  own  judgment  and  preference  against 
the  view  and  opinion  of  any  one  else  whomsoever;  I 
am  merely  expressing  my  own  personal  feelings.  If  it 
be  asserted  by  some  one  who  chances  not  to  agree  with 
me,  that  these  feelings  are  of  no  importance  to  any  one 
but  to  myself,  I  may  reply  that  1  admit  it  and  that  no 
one  is  obliged  to  read  what  I  have  written ;  and  should 
he  complain  that  he  has  paid  "very  hard  cash"  for  my 
book  and  has  a  right  to  full  consideration,  I  will  answer, 
as  Mr.  Lang  answered  somebody, — that  he  should  read 
Mazzini,  and  learn  that  man  has  no  rights  worth  men 
tioning,  only  duties.  Moreover  I  would  say  to  him  that 
if  he  can  prove  that  he  paid  for  the  volume  its  full 
price,  and  did  not  pick  it  up  at  a  discount  in  some  sec 
ond-hand  book  shop,  that  refuge  of  lame,  halt  and  blind 
books,  or  at  a  bargain  counter  in  a  department  store,  I 
will  cheerfully  refund  his  money,  provided  he  will  fur 
nish  me  with  a  sworn  affidavit  declaring  solemnly  that 
he  sincerely  admires  the  book  which  I  detest.  But 
even  the  omniverous  reader  must  like  some  books  bet 
ter  than  others.  If,  as  was  truly  said,  no  cigars  are 
bad,  some  are  certainly  more  smokeable  than  others, 
and  some  pretty  women  are  prettier  than  other  pretty 


60  AT  THE  LIBRARY  TABLE 

women.  If  the  books  I  do  not  like  were  the  only  books 
in  the  world,  I  suppose  that  I  would  be  fond  of  them 
as  Frederick  was  of  Ruth  until  he  beheld  the  loveliness 
of  Major-General  Stanley's  numerous  daughters. 

One  of  the  black  sheep  of  my  flock  is  called  "Random 
Reminiscences:  by  Charles  H.  E.  Brookfield",  pub 
lished  in  1902.  The  author  is  the  son  of  Thackeray's 
Brookfield,  and  his  portrait  shows  what  manner  of  man 
he  must  be.  How  any  rational  human  being  could  write 
out  or  cause  to  be  published  such  a  flat,  stale  and  un 
profitable  mess,  passes  understanding.  The  most 
wretched  of  anecdotes  are  retailed,  an,d  if  he  chances 
upon  a  fairly  good  one  he  spoils  it  in  the  telling.  "I  am 
not  aware",  he  says  in  his  preface,  "that  I  have  included 
in  this  volume  anything  which  appears  to  me  of  import 
ance;  I  trust  that  I  have  not  either  committed  the 
impertinence  of  expressing  any  views."  This  may  have 
been  meant  in  a  facetious  way,  but  it  is  obviously 
so  true  that  one  is  impelled  to  ask  why  on  earth 
he  wrote  it.  He  is  so  proud  of  his  pointless 
stories  that  he  makes  one  long  to  go  out  and  kill 
something,  thus  creating  a  counter-irritant.  How 
can  any  one  fail  to  give  way  to  inextinguishable  laugh 
ter  over  this  final  outburst  of  glee:  "Thanks  to  Dr. 
Walther  and  his  treatment,  I  put  on  nearly  2  stone 
weight  in  a  little  over  two  months.  I  was  10  stone  4 
before  I  went,  and  12  stone  2  when  I  left.  And  I  am 
over  12  stone  to-day,  three  years  later".  From  his 
humor  I  should  think  that  he  was  heavier.  I  have  been 
waiting  patiently  for  a  second  edition  to  ascertain  wheth 
er  he  has  grown  to  any  extent,  but  none  has  appeared. 
No  wonder  that  he  finished  his  autobiography  with  a 
quotation  from  a  newspaper  which  said  of  him,  on  his 
supposed  decease:  "But,  after  all,  it  is  at  his  club 


IN  A  LIBRARY  CORNER  61 

that  he  will  be  most  missed".  Jolly  dog,  how  he  must 
have  warmed  the  cockles  of  their  hearts  with  his  merry 
jests! 

In  the  same  corner  with  the  jovial  Brookfield  and  his 
"twelve  stone"  are  gathered  together  the  various  biog 
raphies  whose  titles  begin  with  "The  True"  or  "The 
Real".  I  confess  that  I  have  not  read  through  "The 
True  Thomas  Jefferson",  although  I  am  burdened  with 
two  copies,  but  I  have  ploughed  through  "The  True 
Abraham  Lincoln",  and  found  it  an  ordinary  piece  of 
hack-work,  marred  by  blunders.  The  calm  assumption 
which  leads  a  writer  to  proclaim  that  he  alone  portrays 
"the  true"  and  "the  real",  as  if  all  other  accounts 
were  false,  is  condemnatory  at  the  outset.  As  for  Jeaf- 
freson's  lot,— "The  Real  Lord  Byron"  and  "The  Real 
Shelley", — they  are  monuments  of  dullness,  the  subjects 
overloaded  with  petty  details  of  no  value  to  any  one. 
Mr.  John  Cordy  Jeaffreson,  who  was  always  publishing 
"Books  About"  something  or  somebody,  has  presented 
to  mankind  his  "Recollections",  conspicuous  chiefly  for 
its  covert  sneers  at  Thackeray,  whom  he  hated,  and 
studied  disparagement  of  the  personal  character  of  that 
giant  who  towered  so  far  above  Jeaffresonian  pigmies. 
Jeaffreson's  books  belong  to  the  Sawdust  School  of  lit 
erature.  He  has  not  even  the  brightness  of  Percy  Fitz 
gerald,  who  has  so  long  made  the  most  of  his  stock  in 
trade,  a  certain  friendship  and  association  with  Dickens, 
and  who  in  his  two  volumes  of  "Memories  of  an  Auth 
or"  is  almost  as  bad  as  Jeaffreson  at  his  best.  It  is  true 
that  Dickens  had  a  personal  liking  for  Fitzgerald,  when 
the  latter  was  a  contributor  to  "All  The  Year  Round", 
but  I  believe  that  Charles  Dickens  the  Younger  not 
many  years  ago  expressed  some  doubts  as  to  the  inti 
macy  of  the  two  men. 


62  AT  THE  LIBRARY  TABLE 

Jeaffreson  was  a  weak  and  self-important  person, 
jealous  of  his  betters.  George  Somes  Layard  says,  in 
his  interesting  "Life  of  Shirley  Brooks",*  that  Jeaf 
freson  in  his  "Book  of  Recollections"  wrote  "with  ill 
concealed  envy  of  a  far  abler  and  more  successful  man 
than  himself"  a  silly  fling  at  Brooks  concerning  the 
name  "Shirley";  a.id  elsewhere  refers  to  the  "Recol 
lections"  as  a  "querulous  and  pawky  book".  The  char 
acterization  is  undeniably  just;  plainly  in  accord  with 
the  opinion  of  the  reading  public;  and  the  two  pawky 
volumes  rest  peacefully  in  the  trash  corner. 

In  company  with  Jeaffreson  will  be  found  everything 
written  by  Mr.  William  Carew  Hazlitt,  who,  in  a  long 
life  of  devotion  to  the  accumulation  of  miscellaneous 
information  of  doubtful  value  and  to  the  parading  of 
the  name  of  Hazlitt,  has  caused  a  vast  number  of  pages 
to  be  covered  with  typographical  records  of  his  dili 
gence  and  of  his  unfailing  capacity  for  making  blund 
ers.  Full  forty  years  ago  he  was  unlucky  enough  to 
come  into  close  contact  with  the  keen  lance  of  one 
James  Russell  Lowell,  who  riddled  his  editions  of  Web 
ster  and  of  Lovelace,  included  in  John  Russell  Smith's 
"Library  of  Old  Authors".  Lowell  wrote  that  "of  all 
Mr.  Smith's  editors,  Mr.  W.  Carew  Hazlitt  is  the 
worst.  He  is  at  times  positively  incredible,  worse  even 
than  Mr.  Halliwell,  and  that  is  saying  a  good  deal.f 
Whether  Hazlitt  was  worth  flaying  as  Lowell  flayed 
him,  may  be  questioned.  But  Hazlitt  still  goes  on,  in 
his  Boeotian  way;  always  inept;  sometimes  so  offensive 
that,  as  in  the  case  of  his  "Four  Generations  of  a  Lit 
erary  Family"  it  has  been  necessary  to  withdraw  the 


*A  Great  Punch  Editor,  London,  1907. 
tMy  Study  Windows,  337. 


IN  A  LIBRARY  CORNER  63 

work  from  circulation.*  An  example  of  his  "foolish 
notions"  may  be  seen  in  one  of  his  latest  books,  "The 
Book-Collector"  (1904)  which  has  a  sub-title  com 
posed  of  fifty-one  words.  Mr.  Hazlitt  announces  the 
astonishing  generalization  that  the  autograph  collector 
does  not  care  for  books  or  for  manuscripts  beyond  the 
extent  of  a  fly  leaf  or  inscribed  title  page,  and  that  he 
is  a  modern  and  inexcusable  Bagford  who  tears  out  the 
inscription  and  throws  away  the  book.  He  cites  the 
case  of  "a  copy  of  Donne's  Sermons,  with  a  brilliant 
portrait  of  the  author — and  a  long  inscription  by  Izaak 
Walton  presenting  the  volume  to  his  aunt.  It  was  in 
the  pristine  English  calf  binding,  as  clean  as  when  it  left 
Walton's  hands  en  route  to  his  kinswoman,  and  such 
a  delightful  signature.  What  has  become  of  it?  It 
is  sad  even  to  commit  to  paper  the  story — one  among 
many.  An  American  gentleman  acquired  it,  tore  the 
portrait  and  leaf  of  inscription  out,  and  threw  the  rest 
away". 

I  believe  him — to  use  the  language  of  a  mighty  hunt 
er — to  be  a  meticulous  prevaricator.  If  the  tale  be 
true,  and  I  should  like  to  have  Mr.  William  Carew 
Hazlitt  under  cross-examination  for  a  while,  it  only 
shows  that  there  may  be  a  few  vandals  in  the  tribe 
of  autograph  collectors,  but  no  true  collector  would 
ever  be  guilty  of  such  a  wanton  crime.  Bagford  tore 
out  title-pages,  but  that  affords  no  evidence  that  book- 
lovers  are  habitually  given  to  the  folly  of  tearing  out 
title  pages.  As  for  the  case  being  "one  of  many",  I 
deny  it;  if  he  had  known  of  another  instance  he  would 
have  gloried  in  the  description  of  it.  But  he  never 
knew  law,  logic  or  truth,  and  upon  his  indictment  for 

*See  a  review  in  The  Literary  Collector,  September, 
1905. 


64  AT  THE  LIBRARY  TABLE 

silliness  it  would  be  necessary  only  to  offer  in  evidence 
his  books, — and  rest. 

But  why  should  I  get  so  very  cross  about  poor  old 
Hazlitt  ?  The  wisest  thing  I  can  do  is  to  recite  to  him 
the  touching  verses  of  "You  are  old,  Father  William" 
and  remonstrate  gently  with  him  in  regard  to  his  per 
nicious  habit  of  incessantly  standing  upon  his  head.  It 
will  be  a  good  plan  to  return  to  the  favorite  corner  and 
soothe  my  ruffled  spirits  by  reading  Percy  Greg's  com 
ical  "History  of  the  United  States",  or  better  still,  the 
dear  little  story  which  Roswell  Field  wrote  about  "The 
Bondage  of  Ballinger". 

Whether  so  famous  a  poem  as  Young's  Night 
Thoughts  is  entitled  to  the  privileges  of  the  pit  of 
Acheron,  may  be  matter  for  dispute;  but  as  Goldsmith 
said  of  those  gloomy  lucubrations,  a  reader  speaks  of 
them  with  exaggerated  applause  or  contempt  as  his  dis 
position  "is  either  turned  to  mirth  or  melancholy".  We 
have  preserved  "tired  nature's  sweet  restorer,  balmy 
sleep",  and  "procrastination  is  the  thief  of  time,"  but 
we  know  that  the  didactic  parson's  famous  poem  is 
"hardly  ever  read  now  except  under  compulsion."  My 
chief  grievance  against  the  man  who  was  compelled  to 

"Torture  his  invention 
To  flatter  knaves  or  lose  his  pension," 

is  not,  however,   founded  upon  his  lugubrious  penta 
meters. 

The  man  who  turns  down  the  corner  of  the  leaf  of  a 
book  is  not  only  fit  for  treason,  stratagems  and  spoils, 
but  is  well  qualified  to  commit  any  mean  crime  in  the 
calendar.  If  his  memory  is  so  poor  that  he  cannot  re- 


IN  A  LIBRARY  CORNER  65 

member  page  or  passage,  let  him  make  a  small  pencil 
note  on  the  margin.  Such  a  note  may  readily  be  re 
moved  by  an  eraser,  but  a  "dog's  ear"  can  never  be 
wholly  removed.  Its  blight  continues  during  the  life 
of  the  book.  Now  Boswell  records  this  sickening  fact: 
"I  have  seen  volumes  of  Dr.  Young's  copy  of  The 
Rambler,  in  which  he  has  marked  the  passages  which 
he  thought  particularly  excellent,  by  folding  down  a 
corner  of  the  page,  and  such  as  he  rated  'in  a  super- 
eminent  degree  are  marked  by  double  folds.  I  am  sorry 
that  some  of  the  volumes  are  lost."  I  do  not  share  in 
this  sorrow;  it  is  well  that  the  testimony  of  such  bru 
tality  should  be  effaced.  Double  folds!  Insatiate 
archer,  would  not  one  suffice?  Perhaps  Johnson  him 
self,  Virginius-like,  destroyed  his  offspring  thus  shame 
lessly  violated. 

It  is  often  difficult  to  get  out  of  corners ;  but  before 
I  escape,  let  me  give  to  the  dog's  earing,  nocturnally 
reflecting  Young,  full  credit  for  a  single  utterance — 
"Joy  flies  monopolists," — which  proves  that  it  was  not 
wholly  in  vain  that  he  burned  the  midnight  oil;  for 
although  he  speaks  in  the  present  tense,  it  is  manifest 
that  the  spirit  of  prophecy  was  strong  within  him.  He 
looked  ahead  for  more  than  a  century  and  foresaw  the 
day  when  "grafters"  might  be  glorified  and  exalted, 
debauchees  acclaimed  us  apostles  of  the  people,  and 
murderers  feasted  and  honored,  but  monopolists  hated, 
shunned  and  abhorred  as  miscreants  whose  sins  can 
never  be  forgiven.  Joyless  indeed  are  those  who  dare 
to  deprive  their  fellow  beings  of  the  inborn  right  to 
equality  in  everything ;  for  we  hold  these  truths  to  be 
self-evident,  that  all  men  are  created  free  and  equal, — 
that  is  to  say,  with  the  right  to  do  just  as  they  please, 
to  till  the  soil,  to  mine  the  earth,  to  invent  the  telegraph 


66  AT  THE  LIBRARY  TABLE 

and  the  telephone,  to  manufacture  steel,  and  to  con 
struct  railways,  but  not  to  do  it  so  well  as  to  prevent  any 
of  the  great  people  from  doing  the  same  thing.  The 
abandoned  wretch  who,  by  his  despicable  brains,  his 
virtuous  life,  and  his  pernicious  industry  seeks  to  impair 
those  rights  in  any  degree,  however  trifling,  must  be 
prepared  to  bid  farewell  to  happiness  and  contentment. 
If  he  is  able  to  avoid  the  jail,  it  will  be  well  for  him  to 
seek  refuge  in  some  secluded  spot;  let  us  say,  in  a  peace 
ful  library  corner. 


OF  THE  OLD  FASHION 

SPEAKING  appreciatively  a  few  nights  ago  at 
the  club,  concerning  a  recent  magazine  article 
on  "Prescott,  the  Man,"  I  was  reminded  by  a 
youthful  university  graduate  of  only  twenty- 
five  years  standing,  that  "Prescott  is  an  old- 
fashioned  historian." 

There  is  much  that  is  amusing  in  the  attitude  of  the 
self-sufficient  present  towards  the  things  of  the  past 
and  there  is  also  an  element  of  the  pathetic.  I  am  often 
called  an  "old  fogy,"  an  epithet  whose  origin  and 
derivation  are  uncertain,  but  whose  meaning  is  reason 
ably  plain.  Nobody  who  ever  had  the  name  applied  to 
him  was  oppressed  by  any  doubt  about  its  signification. 
Some  authorities  tell  us  that  it  comes  from  the  Swedish 
fogde — one  who  has  charge  of  a  garrison, — but  I  ques 
tion  it  despite  the  confident  assertion  of  the  Century 
Dictionary.  It  is  not  altogether  inappropriate,  because 
old  fogies  are  compelled  to  hold  the  fort  against  all 
manner  of  abominations.  They  are  the  brakes  on  the 
electric  cars  of  modern  pseudo-progress.  Thackeray 
speaks  of  "old  Livermore,  old  Soy,  old  Chutney  the 
East  India  director,  old  Cutler  the  surgeon, — that  so 
ciety  of  old  fogies,  in  fine,  who  give  each  other  dinners 
sound  and  round  and  dine  for  the  mere  purpose  of  gut 
tling."  So  the  term  is  always  associated  with  the  stupid 
and  the  ridiculous,  used  with  regard  to  "elderly  per 
sons  who  have  no  sympathy  with  the  amusements  and 
pursuits  of  the  young."  Nobody  ever  refers  to  a  young 

67 


68  AT  THE  LIBRARY  TABLE 

fogy,  although  most  of  us  know  many  exceedingly  dull- 
witted  young  people  who  have  no  sympathy  with  the 
amusements  and  pursuits  of  the  aged  or  even  of  the 
middle-aged.  One  class  is  no  more  worthy  of  con 
tempt  than  the  other.  The  adolescents  who  find  their 
highest  form  of  entertainment  in  "bridge"  are  at  least 
as  deserving  of  pity  as  the  semi-centenarian  who  pre 
fers  to  pass  his  evenings  among  his  books  and  his  pic 
tures  or  to  devote  them  to  Shakespeare  and  the  musical 
glasses.  There  are  some  delights  about  the  library  fire 
side  which  compare  favorably  with  those  of  the  corri 
dors  of  our  most  popular  hostelry. 

Certain  kindly  critics  have  insisted  that  my  own  lit 
erary  tastes  were  acquired  in  the  year  1850.  I  am  not 
sure  that  the  despised  tastes  formed  in  those  common 
place,  mid-century  days  are  to  be  esteemed  more  highly 
than  the  tastes  of  our  own  self-satisfied  times,  but  a 
good  deal  may  be  said  in  their  favor.  Perhaps  the  past 
is  not  always  inferior  to  the  present.  There  are  varying 
opinions  on  the  subject,  from  the  familiar  saying  of  Al 
fonso  of  Aragon,  quoted  by  Melchior,  immortalized  by 
Bacon,  and  paraphrased  by  Goldsmith — that  saying 
about  old  wood,  old  wine,  old  friends,  and  old  authors 
— to  the  dogmatic  declaration  of  Whittier  that  "still  the 
new  transcends  the  old."  It  may  occur  to  antiquated 
minds  that  there  are  some  elements  of  excellence  about 
old  plays  compared  with  the  dramatic  works  of  this 
careless,  insouciant  time;  that  Wordsworth  has  some 
merits  which  are  superior  to  those  of  the  worthy  gen 
tleman  who  now  fills  the  office  of  Laureate,  and  that 
possibly  the  poety  of  the  last  few  years  is  not  entitled 
to  boast  itself  greatly  beside  that  of  the  early  nineteenth 
century — the  poetry  of  Scott,  of  Byron,  of  Shelley  and 
of  Keats.  But  we  have  the  telephone  and  the  trolley-car, 


OF  THE  OLD  FASHION  69 

the  automobile,  the  aeroplane,  and  the  operation  for  ap 
pendicitis;  and  we  admire  our  progress,  the  wonderful 
growth  of  the  material,  the  mechanical,  and  the  million- 
airy,  while  a  few  may  pause  to  ask  whether  good  taste 
and  good  manners  have  grown  as  greatly.  Some  of  our 
older  buildings  for  example  are  assuredly  far  better 
to  look  at  than  the  lofty  structures  of  steel  which  tower 
in  lower  New  York  and  make  of  our  streets  darksome 
canons  where  the  light  of  day  scarcely  penetrates  and 
where  the  winds  of  winter  roar  wildly  about  our  devoted 
heads  as  we  struggle,  hat-clutching,  to  our  office  door 
ways.  May  we  not  cite  the  City  Hall  and  the  Assay 
Office  as  honorable  specimens  of  dignified  architecture? 
There  was  something  impressive  too  about  the  old 
"Tombs," — replaced  not  long  ago  by  a  monstrosity — 
a  structure  which  a  lady  recently  told  me  was  once  re 
ferred  to  by  an  English  friend  who  had  never  been  in 
New  York,  as  "the  Westminster  Abbey  of  America." 

It  is  delightful  to  be  young  and  to  indulge  in  the 
illusions  of  youth — a  truism  which  it  is  safe  to  utter, 
for  nobody  will  dispute  it.  "Youth  is  a  blunder,  man 
hood  a  struggle,  old  age  a  regret,"  said  the  strange, 
semi-oriental  personage,  an  enigma  in  politics  and  a 
problem  in  literature,  Benjamin  Disraeli.  Everybody 
knows  the  rude  saying  of  old  George  Chapman,  which 
it  is  almost  an  impertinence  to  quote,  but  every  one  does 
not  remember  whence  it  came — that  young  men  think 
the  old  men  are  fools  but  old  men  know  young  men  are 
fools.  It  is  certain  that  we  have  cherished  that  idea  in 
our  minds  for  many  centuries.  Pope,  in  his  epigram 
matic  way,  remarked  that  "in  youth  and  beauty  wisdom 
is  but  rare,"  but  we  cannot  give  him  credit  for  original 
ity  in  the  utterance.  We  will  go  on  with  our  regrets, 
our  reproofs  and  our  hesitancies,  and  in  the  course  of 


70  AT  THE  LIBRARY  TABLE 

time  those  who  sneer  at  us  now  as  cumbersome  relics, 
laudatores  temporis  acti,  mere  maunderers  enamored 
of  an  effete  past,  will  take  their  turn,  fill  our  places, 
and  endure  the  pitying  and  condescending  smiles  of  the 
succeeding  generation.  There  is  nothing  new  under  the 
sun  and  the  man  of  to-day  may  well  pause  in  his  arro 
gant  career  to  remember  that  he  will  quickly  pass  into 
the  category  of  the  obsolete. 

Some  of  us  who  are  beginning  to  descend  that  down 
ward  slope  of  life  which  soon  becomes  sadly  precipitous, 
but  who  retain  a  vivid  recollection  of  the  long-ago,  are 
fond  of  recalling  a  period  of  New  York  which  in  this 
era  of  lavish  expenditures,  indiscriminating  profuseness, 
and  careless  prodigality  seems  strangely  simple.  Those 
were  the  days  when  in  sedate  Second  Avenue  and  Stuy- 
vesant  Square  were  the  homes  of  dignified  wealth, 
whose  owners  rather  looked  down  upon  Fifth  Avenue 
as  parvenu;  and  Forty-second  Street  was  almost  an 
outpost  of  civilization.  We  revelled  in  the  delights  of 
the  ancient  Philharmonic  concerts  and  believed  that  Carl 
Bergmann  was  the  last  evolution  of  a  conductor;  later 
we  recognized  Theodore  Thomas  as  the  man  who  did 
more  to  develop  a  taste  for  good  orchestral  music  in 
this  country  than  any  other  one  man  who  ever  lived. 
We  thronged  the  stalls  of  old  Wallack's,  with  its  most 
excellent  of  stock-companies — something  which  has 
wholly  disappeared — and  we  rejoiced  in  Dion  Bou- 
cicault  and  Agnes  Robertson.  A  little  later  we  haunted 
the  upper  gallery  of  the  Academy  of  Music  in  Four 
teenth  Street — at  least  /  did,  because  of  a  confirmed 
stringency  in  the  money  market, — and  cheered 
the  magical  top-notes  of  the  ponderous  but  melodious 
Wachtel  and  the  generous  tones  of  that  most  inspiring 
of  singers,  the  splendid  Parepa-Rosa.  We  hailed  with 


OF  THE  OLD  FASHION  71 

loud  acclaims  the  manly  and  dignified  Santley, — more 
in  his  element  in  oratorio  than  in  opera — and  the  royal 
contralto,  Adelaide  Phillips,  long  since  forgotten  except 
by  the  Old  Guard  who  afterwards  transferred  their 
allegiance  to  Annie  Louise  Gary.  It  may  have  been  a 
provincial  time,  but  we  did  not  think  so;  it  was  a  good 
time  and  we  enjoyed  it. 

It  seems  but  yesterday  when  all  over  the  land  flashed 
the  news  of  Lincoln's  death,  and  the  black  draperies 
suddenly  shrouded  the  streets  while  the  triumphant  note 
of  Easter  Sunday  died  away  in  a  cry  of  lamentation.  I 
was  in  old  St.  Bartholomew's  in  Lafayette  Place  that 
Sunday,  and  the  recollection  of  it  will  never  be  lost.  Nor 
shall  I  forget  the  grief  and  alarm  of  a  small  band  of 
Southerners,  secessionists  of  the  strongest  type,  domi 
ciled  in  the  same  house  with  me,  as  they  lamented  that 
in  the  death  of  Abraham  Lincoln,  the  South  had  been 
deprived  of  its  best  friend,  the  man  who  would  have 
made  reconstruction  a  blessing  instead  of  an  affliction. 
They  had  been  rebels,  it  is  true,  but  they  were  con 
scious  of  the  loftiness  of  the  soul  of  that  noble  citizen 
who,  with  faults  which  are  often  the  accompaniments 
of  greatness,  stood  for  all  that  was  just  and  magnani 
mous  in  our  national  life. 

Some  of  us  have  a  clear  recollection  of  the  camping 
of  soldiers  in  City  Hall  Park,  the  cheering  of  the  mul 
titude  as  the  regiments  of  volunteers  swung  down  Broad 
way  on  their  march  to  Virginia,  when  we  were  striving 
to  preserve  the  republic  and  the  horror  of  civil  war  was 
present  with  us  every  hour.  We  were  less  cynical,  less 
ambitious,  less  strenuous  in  those  days,  and  I  think  we 
were  more  serene  and  sincere.  We  had  serious  imper 
fections,  but  we  did  not  carry  ourselves  quite  as  mightily, 
and  on  the  whole  we  had  some  creditable  characteristics. 


72  AT  THE  LIBRARY  TABLE 

There  is  no  good  reason  why  we  should  be  ashamed  of 
ourselves. 

Were  we  so  very  stupid  in  the  fifties?  Was  there 
not  some  true  and  honorable  life  in  our  social  and  liter 
ary  world  of  that  generation?  Surely  our  newspapers 
were  as  worthy  of  respect  as  some  of  our  contemporary 
journals  with  their  blazing  capitals,  their  columns  of 
crime,  their  pages  of  the  sensational,  and  their  pro 
voking  condensed  head-lines  which  exasperate  me  by 
their  airy  flippancy.  I  sometimes  wonder  that  nobody 
except  myself  utters  a  protest  against  those  dreadful 
headlines.  They  reduce  almost  everything  to  vulgarity, 
and  the  affection  of  condensation  is  distinctly  irritating. 
Most  objectionable  of  all  are  the  headlines  followed  by 
interrogation  points,  because  they  are  misleading.  If, 
for  example,  they  say  in  capitals  "Mr.  Smith  strikes 
his  mother?"  the  average  reader — and  there  is  more 
of  that  sort  than  of  any  other — glancing  over  the  pages 
misses  the  query  and  goes  to  his  grave  with  the  firm 
conviction  that  poor  Smith  was  the  most  unmanly  of 
brutes.  I  am  not  sure  that  the  interrogation  mark  pro 
tects  the  proprietors  against  a  libel  suit. 

It  is  true  that  in  the  fifties  our  art  may  have  been  of 
the  tame  and  tidy  sort,  timorously  clinging  to  the  con 
ventional;  our  financial  enterprises  were  conducted  on 
so  small  a  scale  that  a  million  was  a  sum  which  made 
the  banker's  heart  palpitate  with  apprehensive  emo 
tion;  our  politics  were  concerned  chiefly  with  the  col 
ored  man  and  his  relations  to  the  State;  in  architecture 
our  awful  brown  stone  fronts  were  oppressing  in  a  dom 
ineering  way  all  the  town  in  and  above  Fourteenth 
Street.  But  there  was  a  certain  dignity  about  it  all,  an 
absence  of  tawdriness,  a  savor  of  respectability. 

Fourteenth  Street!     It  must  be  difficult  for  the  New 


OF  THE  OLD  FASHION  73 

Yorkers  of  to-day  who  have  not  passed  the  half-cen 
tury  mark  to  realize  that  only  fifty  years  ago  itwas  really 
"up-town."  It  is  easier  to  imagine  the  present  Thomas 
Street  as  it  was  in  1815,  a  spot  to  be  reached  only  after 
a  bucolic  journey  through  country  lanes  which  my  grand 
father  used  to  traverse  on  his  way  to  the  New  York 
Hospital  where  he  studied  medicine.  We  think  of  that 
condition  of  things  in  about  the  same  state  of  mind  as 
that  in  which  we  contemplate  the  Roman  Forum  or  the 
stony  avenues  of  Pompeii.  It  amuses  me  to  recall  the 
period  of  the  fifties  and  early  sixties  when  the  Hudson 
River  Railroad  had  its  terminus  in  Thirtieth  Street  near 
Tenth  Avenue,  but  sent  its  cars,  horse-drawn,  to  Cham 
bers  Streets  and  College  Place  just  opposite  old  Ridley's, 
whose  pictures  were  on  those  familiar  inverted  cones  of 
never-to-be-forgotten  candies,  the  virtues  whereof  have 
been  proclaimed  sonorously  on  railway  trains  from  time 
immemorial,  and  that  Chambers  Street  station  will  al 
ways  live  in  the  me'mory  of  old-fashioned  people  who 
used  to  "go  to  town"  from  rural  neighborhoods.  My 
aforesaid  grandfather  took  me  often,  much  to  my  joy, 
to  visit  his  son  in  West  Nineteenth  Street,  and  the  con 
servative  old  gentleman,  who  served  as  a  surgeon  under 
Commodore  Charles  Stewart  on  the  good  ship  "Frank 
lin,"  always  went  to  Chambers  Street  and  thence  by 
the  Sixth  Avenue  horse-railway  to  Nineteenth  Street, 
which  caused  the  pilgrimage  to  be  unduly  protracted, 
but  we  always  reached  our  destination  sooner  or  later — 
generally  later.  I  remember  that  an  idiotic  notion  pos 
sessed  me  that  we  were  confined  to  traveling  on  West 
Broadway  because  country  people  were  not  allowed  to 
encumber  the  real,  the  glorious  Broadway,  of  whose 
omnibus-crowded  splendors  I  caught  but  furtive 
glimpses  by  peering  up  the  cross-streets.  Another  gen- 


74  AT  THE  LIBRARY  TABLE 

tleman  of  the  old  school,  whom  I  loved  sincerely,  in 
variably  proceeded  from  Thirtieth  Street — and  after 
the  genesis  of  the  Grand  Central  Station,  from  Forty- 
second  Street — to  the  Astor  House,  from  which  vener 
able  house  of  cheer  he  wended  his  way  serenely  to 
Union  Square,  or  to  Madison  Square,  or  to  any  quar 
ter  where  his  business  or  his  pleasure  led  him,  how 
ever  remote  it  might  be  from  City  Hall  Park.  To  him 
the  Astor  House  was  practically  the  hub  of  the  metrop 
olis.  These  details  may  seem  to  be  trivial,  but  they  are 
characteristic  of  the  old-fashioned  men  of  half  a  cen 
tury  ago  who  still  clung  to  the  swallow-tailed  coat  as  a 
garment  to  be  worn  by  daylight.  It  never  occurred  to 
them  to  "take  a  cab,"  possibly  because  there  was  no  cab 
which  a  decent  person  would  willingly  occupy  unless  it 
had  been  ordered  in  advance  from  a  livery  stable.  There 
are  many  reasons  why  this  land  of  freedom — modified 
freedom — is  preferable  to  any  other  land;  but  when 
we  come  to  cabs,  we  must,  in  all  fairness,  admit  the 
superiority  of  the  London  hansom  over  a  New  York 
"growler,"  the  hansoms  now  vanishing,  we  learn,  be 
fore  the  all-conquering  horde  of  motor-cars. 

The  old-fashioned  magazines — how  few  ever  turn 
their  pages  now,  and  yet  how  much  in  them  is  of  inter 
est,  even  to  a  casual  reader.  Far  be  it  from  me  to  whis 
per  the  slightest  word  of  disparagement  about  our  gor 
geous  and  innumerable  "monthlies,"  with  their  pomp 
and  pride  of  illustration,  extending  from  text  to  the 
copious  advertisements,  those  soul-stirring  and  lucra 
tive  adjuncts  to  a  magazine  of  the  present.  Do  not  tell 
me  that  a  man  who  buys  the  thick,  paper-covered  book 
does  not  read  the  advertisements;  he  pretends  that  he 
does  not,  but  he  does.  According  to  my  experience  he 
follows  them  from  soap  to  steam-yachts,  from  refriger- 


OF  THE  OLD  FASHION  75 

ators  to  railway  routes,  but  he  would  rather  die  than 
confess  it.  Much  as  I  admire  these  products  of  our 
later  civilization,  I  nevertheless  maintain  that  there  is 
more  charm  in  an  ancient  number  of  any  worthy  peri 
odical  than  is  to  be  found  in  the  latest  issue.  Time  seems 
to  add  a  mellow  flavor  to  the  good  things  of  the  past. 
There  is  not  much  to  say  in  praise  of  the  solemn  Whig 
Review  or  of  O'Sullivan's  portentous  Democratic  Re 
view,  but  take  from  the  shelf  a  shabbily  bound  volume 
of  Graham's  Magazine  of  Literature  and  Art,  pub 
lished  in  the  forties,  and  there  will  be  discovered  a  wil 
derness  of  delights.  The  fashion-plates  alone  are 
dreams  of  comical  beauty,  and  the  steel  plates  of  "The 
Shepherd's  Love,"  "The  Proffered  Kiss,"  and  "Lace 
Pattern  with  Embossed  View"  far  surpass — in  a  sense 
— the  boasted  work  of  Pyle  and  of  Abbey.  What  soul 
will  decline  to  be  thrilled  at  the  lovely  skit  entitled 
"Born  to  Love  Pigs  and  Chickens"  by  that  butterfly 
of  literature,  Nathaniel  Parker  Willis,  which  you  will 
find  in  the  number  of  February,  1843.  Consider  the 
portrait  of  Charles  Fenno  Hoffman,  with  his  exquisite 
coatlet,  his  wonderful  legs  attired  in  what  appear  to  be 
tights,  and  his  mild  but  intellectual  countenance  beam 
ing  upon  us  as  he  sits,  bare-headed,  upon  a  convenient 
stage  rock,  holding  in  one  hand  an  object  which  may  be 
a  pie,  a  boxing-glove  or  a  hat,  according  to  the  imagi 
nation  of  the  beholder.  Contemplate  the  list  of  contrib 
utors,  including  Bryant,  Cooper,  Longfellow,  Lowell, 
and  "Edgar  A.  Poe,  Esq.,"  the  "Esq."  adding  a  de 
licious  dignity  to  each  of  the  illustrious  names.  It 
was  only  "sixty  years  since,"  but  can  any  magazine  of 
to-day  rival  that  catalogue?  Almost  every  one  knows 
that  Poe  was  editor  of  Graham  for  a  year  and  that  The 
Murders  in  the  Rue  Morgue  as  well  as  Longfellow's 


76  AT  THE  LIBRARY  TABLE 

Spanish  Student  first  appeared  in  that  magazine.  Com 
ing  to  a  later  day,  recall  the  Harper  of  the  fifties.  No 
pleasure  of  the  present  can  equal  that  which  we  felt 
when  we  revelled  in  Abbott's  Napoleon  which  turned 
us  lads  into  enthusiastic  admirers  of  the  great  Emper 
or;  or  when  we  enjoyed  the  jovial  Porte  Crayon  whose 
drawing  was  consistently  as  bad  as  Thackeray's,  but 
whose  fascinating  humor  had  a  quality  peculiarly  its 
own.  Not  long  ago  Mr.  Janvier,  to  the  gratification  of 
the  surviving  members  of  the  brotherhood  of  early 
Harper  readers,  gave  to  Strother  the  tribute  of  his  ju 
dicious  praise. 

One  may  not  gossip  lightly  about  the  Atlantic,  but 
the  Knickerbocker  is  distinctly  old-fashioned.  Longfel 
low's  Psalm  of  Life  first  saw  the  light  in  its  pages ;  im 
mortal,  even  if  Barrett  Wendell  does  truthfully  say 
that  it  is  full  not  only  of  outworn  metaphor  but  of  su 
perficial  literary  allusion.  Old  New  York,  adds  Pro 
fessor  Wendell,  expressed  itself  in  our  first  school  of 
renascent  writing,  which  withered  away  with  the  Knick 
erbocker  Magazine.  But  there  was  a  Knickerbocker 
school,  and  the  brothers  Willis  and  Gaylord  Clark 
helped  to  sustain  its  glories.  The  magazine  began  in 
1832,  faded  in  1857  and  died  in  1864;  and  out  of  it 
sprang  many  of  the  authors  whose  names  are  inseparably 
associated  with  a  golden  period  of  our  literature. 

It  was  only  a  short  time  ago  that  one  of  the  men  of 
those  by-gone  times  departed  this  life,  and  the  scanty 
mention  of  him  in  the  public  press  compelled  a  sad 
recognition  of  the  familiar  truth  that  in  order  to  retain 
popular  attraction  one  must  pose  perpetually  under  the 
lime-light.  Parke  Godwin,  who  belonged  to  the  order 
of  scholarly,  high-minded  Americans,  had  outlived  his 
fame,  except  among  the  Centurions  of  West  Forty-third 


OF  THE  OLD  FASHION  77 

Street  and  a  few  old  people  of  the  same  class.  Perhaps 
he  did  not  concentrate  his  powers  sufficiently.  Editor, 
writer  of  political  essays,  author  of  Vala,  a  Mytholog 
ical  Tale,  biographer  of  his  father-in-law,  William  Cul- 
len  Bryant,  and  by  virtue  of  his  History  of  France, 
historian, — but  he  published  only  one  volume  more  than 
forty  years  ago  and  then  abandoned  the  task — he  had 
that  broad  culture  which  sometimes  disperses  itself  and 
fails  to  win  for  its  possessor  the  highest  place  in  the  lit 
erary  hierarchy.  He  was  a  delightful  example  of  what 
we  now  regard  as  the  old-fashioned  and  his  address  on 
the  fiftieth  anniversary  of  the  founding  of  the  Century 
Club  is  a  mine  of  good  things  for  one  who  is  interested 
in  the  past  of  New  York.  "I  have  stood  once  more" 
said  he  "beside  the  easel  of  Cole  as  he  poured  his  ideal 
visions  of  the  Voyage  of  Life  and  the  Course  of  Em 
pire  in  gorgeous  colors  upon  the  canvas.  I  have  seen 
the  boyish  Kensett  trying  to  infuse  his  own  refinement 
and  sweetness  into  the  wild  woods  of  the  wold.  I 
have  watched  the  stately  Gifford  as  he  brought  the  City 
of  the  Sea  out  of  its  waters,  in  a  style  that  Cavaletto 
and  Ziem  would  envy  and  with  a  brilliancy  of  color  that 
outshone  even  its  native  Italian  skies.  I  have  stood  be 
side  the  burly  Leutze  as  he  portrayed  our  Washington 
among  the  ice  of  the  Delaware,  o>r  depicted  the  multi 
tudinous  tramp  of  immigrants  making  their  western 
way  through  the  wilderness  to  the  shores  of  the  Oregon, 
that  'hears  no  sound  save  its  own  dashings.'  All  have 
come  back  for  a  moment,  but  they  are  gone,  oh  whither? 
Into  the  silent  land,  says  Von  Sails ;  yet  how  silent  it  is ! 
We  speak  to  them  but  they  answer  us  not  again."  He 
brought  back  to  us  the  beginning  of  things,  when  he  told 
us  of  the  incipient  conditions  of  the  Academy  of  De 
sign.  "They  took  a  room — was  it  suggestive? — in  the 


78  AT  THE  LIBRARY  TABLE 

old  Alms  House  in  the  Park,  and  they  worked  under  a 
wick  dipped  in  whale-oil  which  gave  out  more  smoke 
than  light."  He  spoke  of  Halleck,  of  Gulian  Ver- 
planck,  of  Bryant,  of  Charles  Fenno  Hoffman,  of  Rob 
ert  C.  Sands,  and  of  old  Tristam  Burges,  "who  had 
swallowed  Lempriere's  Classical  Dictionary;"  and  he 
closed  with  a  brief  flight  of  eloquence  such  as  in  these 
days  of  new-fashioned  chilliness  it  is  seldom  vouchsafed 
to  us  to  hear. 

Of  the  same  order  was  William  Allen  Butler,  the 
friend  of  Halleck  and  of  Duyckinck,  of  Andrew  Jack 
son  and  of  Martin  Van  Buren  who  knew  Samuel  Rog 
ers  and  visited  him  in  London.  He  was  nine  years  the 
junior  of  Godwin.  He  might  have  won  the  highest 
eminence  in  the  world  of  books  if  he  had  not  made  the 
law  his  chief  occupation  and  literature  only  his  recrea 
tion.  The  bar  does  not  among  its  rewards  number  that 
of  enduring  fame,  unless  occasionally  some  great  polit 
ical  or  criminal  trial  perpetuates  the  name  of  the  advo 
cate  chiefly  concerned  in  it.  Of  course,  Mr.  Butler's 
early  essay  in  verse,  "Nothing  to  Wear,"  will  never  be 
entirely  forgotten.  A  humorous  skit  as  it  was,  its  en 
during  merit  is  shown  by  the  fact  that  in  spite  of  the 
old-fashioned  terms  descriptive  of  woman's  dress  and 
of  the  fashionable  life  of  fifty  years  ago,  in  its  general 
tone  it  is  curiously  contemporaneous.  Scarcely  less 
witty  and  amusing  were  his  poems,  "General  Average" 
and  "The  Sexton  and  the  Thermometer,"  the  former 
being  more  highly  esteemed  by  many  than  its  popular 
predecessor.  I  suppose  that  he  left  it  out  of  the  later 
collection  of  his  poems  because,  with  his  gentle  and 
kindly  nature,  he  feared  that  a  few  of  its  passages  might 
give  offense  to  some  of  his  friends  of  the  Jewish  faith 
whom  he  esteemed  and  respected.  His  translations  of 


OF  THE  OLD  FASHION  79 

Uhland  are  marked  by  graceful  and  poetic  fervor,  and 
his  prose  style  was  lucidity  itself.  His  humor,  always 
attractive  and  appropriate,  lightened  even  his  most  seri 
ous  work,  from  an  address  on  Statutory  Law  to  an  argu 
ment  in  the  Supreme  Court  in  Washington  City.  It 
was  well  said  of  him  by  a  jurist  now  living,  that  uno 
man  of  his  time,  either  in  England  or  America,  held  an 
equally  high  rank  both  as  a  lawyer  and  a  literary  man." 
Another  of  the  old-fashioned  literary  men,  who  was 
however  considerably  the  senior  of  both  Godwin  and 
Butler,  was  George  Perkins  Morris,  who  died  in  1864. 
He  was  at  once  a  general  of  militia,  an  editor,  a  favor 
ite  song-writer,  and  the  composer  of  an  opera  libretto. 
His  title  to  immortality  rests  mainly  upon  the  senti 
mental  verses  known  as  "Woodman,  Spare  that  Tree," 
which  had  a  flavor  about  them  very  dear  to  our  grand 
parents.  To  look  at  his  manly  countenance  in 
the  portrait  engraved  by  Hollyer  (who  at  the 
present  writing  is  still  extant  and  vigorous)  after 
the  Elliott  painting,  we  can  scarcely  imagine  him  as  the 
author  of  such  lines  as  "Near  the  Lake  Where  Drooped 
the  Willow,"  "We  Were  Boys  Together,"  "Land-Ho," 
"Long  Time  Ago"  and  "Whip-poor-will."  But  James 
Grant  Wilson  says  that  for  above  a  score  of  years  he 
could,  any  day,  exchange  one  of  his  songs  unread  for  a 
fifty  dollar  cheque,  when  some  of  literati  of  New  York 
(possibly  Poe)  could  not  sell  anything  for  the  one-fifth 
part  of  that  sum.  In  the  presence  of  Morris,  I  confess 
I  cannot  quite  give  myself  up  to  adoring  admiration  of 
the  taste  of  our  predecessors.  This  stanza  indicates  his 
ordinary  quality: 

The  star  of  love  now  shines  above, 

Cool  zephyrs  crisp  the  sea ; 
Among  the  leaves,  the  wind-harp  weaves 

Its  serenade  for  thee. 


8o  AT  THE  LIBRARY  TABLE 

Notwithstanding  this  rather  trifling  vein,  admirably 
satirized  by  Orpheus  C.  Kerr,  and  a  certain  tone  of 
commonplace,  Morris  had  a  genuine  lyrical  quality  in 
his  verse  although  it  was  devoid  of  startling  bursts  of 
inspiration,  and  English  literature  affords  many  ex 
amples  of  less  deserving  poesy.  Morris  was  an  indus 
trious  editor,  appreciative  of  others,  and  he  had  a  per 
sonal  charm  which  endeared  him  to  those  who  had  the 
good  fortune  to  come  within  the  pale  of  his  friendship, 
and  particularly  to  those  who  were  permitted  to  enjoy 
the  generous  hospitality  of  his  sweet  and  dignified  home 
at  Undercliff  opposite  West  Point.  Smile  as  we  may  at 
his  little  conceits  and  his  obvious  rhymes,  we  must  recog 
nize  the  sincere  and  genial  nature  of  the  kindly  General, 
so  long  conspicuous  in  the  social  and  literary  life  of  old 
New  York. 

These  men,  it  may  be  said,  do  not  prove  the  per 
manent  value  of  the  literature  of  the  fifties.  Godwin 
and  Morris  were  editors  and  Butler  a  busy  lawyer,  none 
of  them  able  to  give  their  undivided  attention  to  author 
ship.  I  suppose  that  Irving  and  Emerson,  Bryant, 
Longfellow,  Hawthorne  and  Bayard  Taylor  were  more 
distinctly  the  ornaments  of  the  time,  and  there  are 
other  names  which  more  judicious  and  discriminating 
men  might  substitute  for  some  of  those  I  have  chosen. 
Bayard  Taylor's  greatest  work  was  done  in  later  years, 
but  he  had  already  won  his  first  fame — not  a  giant,  but 
a  poet  with  "the  spontaneity  of  a  born  singer,"  as  Sted- 
man  said.  Irving,  the  most  charming  and  amiable  of 
writers,  had  not  the  most  forceful  intellect,  but  he  was 
calm  and  graceful,  with  a  gentle  and  bewitching  hu 
mor  and  a  strong  appreciation  of  the  beautiful — a  good 
man,  beloved  and  honored  at  home  and  abroad.  His 
fame  is  paler  now  than  it  was  forty  years  gone  by,  but 


OF  THE  OLD  FASHION  81 

he  has  the  immortality  of  a  classic.  Emerson  had  a 
powerful  influence  over  the  minds  of  men,  but  viewed 
in  the  perspective  of  time,  he  does  not  loom  so  largely 
now.  I  am  not  competent  to  venture  far  into  the  terri 
tory  of  criticism,  having  only  the  equipment  of  a  gen 
eral  reader  who  timidly  expresses  his  personal  feelings 
and  leaves  to  trained  and  experienced  judges  the  task  of 
scientific  analysis;  but  we  general  readers  are  the  jury, 
after  all. 

As  time  slips  by  there  is  a  tendency  to  merge  the 
decades  of  the  past,  and  to  the  young  people  of  1909 
the  period  of  1850-1860  is  every  bit  as  remote  as  the 
period  of  1830-1840.  The  university  undergraduate 
does  not  differentiate  between  the  alumnus  of  1870  and 
him  of  1855,  as  I  know  by  experience.  A  melancholy 
illustration  of  this  well-known  fact  was  afforded  of  late 
in  a  popular  play,  the  scene  of  which  was  laid  in  a  time 
supposed  to  be  exceedingly  far  distant,  and  the  pro 
gramme  announced  it  as  "the  early  eighties."  The 
representation  was  enlivened  by  such  antiquated  melo 
dies  as  "Old  Zip  Coon,"  "Maryland,  My  Maryland," 
and  "Old  Dan  Tucker,"  as  well  as  "Pretty  as  a  Pic 
ture,"  "Ye  Merry  Birds,"  and  "How  Fair  Art  Thou," 
all  as  appropriate  to  the  early  eighties  as  Dr.  Arne's 
"Where  the  Bee  Sucks"  and  "Rule  Britannia."  It  was 
almost  as  abominably  anachronistic  as  the  naive  declara 
tion  of  a  pseudo-Princetonian  who  asserted  a  member 
ship  in  the  Class  of  1879  and  assured  me  that  he  had 
been,  while  in  college,  a  devoted  disciple  of  Doctor 
Eliphalet  Nott.  If  I  have  mingled  my  old-fashioned 
decades  unduly,  it  has  been  because  of  that  tendency  to 
merger  which  no  Sherman  Act  can  suppress. 

Few  there  are  who  cling  with  affection  to  the  memory 
of  the  old-fashioned.  Most  of  us  prefer  to  spin  with  the 


82  AT  THE  LIBRARY  TABLE 

world  down  the  ringing  grooves  of  change,  to  borrow 
the  shadow  of  a  phrase  which  has  itself  become  old- 
fashioned.  The  flaming  sword  of  the  Civil  War  severed 
the  latest  century  of  America  in  two  unequal  parts,  and 
its  fiery  blade  divided  the  old  and  the  new  as  surely 
and  as  cleanly  as  the  guillotine  cleft  apart  the  France 
of  the  old  monarchy  from  the  France  of  modern  days. 
To  stray  back  in  recollection  to  the  land  of  fifty  years 
ago  is  almost  like  treading  the  streets  of  some  mediaeval 
town.  But  for  some  of  us  there  is  a  melancholy  pleasure 
in  the  retrospect  and  a  lingering  fondness  for  the  life 
which  we  thought  so  earnest  and  so  vigorous  then,  but 
which  now  seems  so  placid  and  so  drowsy. 


WILLIAM  HARRISON  AINSWORTH 

REVIEWERS,  critics  and  students  of  litera 
ture   are   inclined  to  resent  the   assertion 
with  respect  to  a  writer  once  eminent,  that 
he  is  substantially  forgotten.    But  it  is  safe 
to  say  that  if  we  regard  the  millions  of 
readers  in  this  country  whose  literary  nutriment  is  made 
up  chiefly  of  works  of  fiction  or  of  biography  of  the 
lighter  sort,  as  "the  reading  public  of  America",  the 
name  of  William  Harrison  Ainsworth  is  by  no  means 
familiar  in  the  United  States.     There  are  many  book- 
owners  who  keep  his  "Works"  upon  their  shelves,  and 
know  the  backs  of  the  volumes,  and  some  of  the  omniv- 
erous  have  doubtless  read  "Jack  Sheppard",   "Crich- 
ton",  "The  Tower  of  London",  and  perhaps  "Rook- 
wood"  ;  yet  thousands  who  are  well  acquainted  with 
their  Scott,  their  Dickens  and  their  Thackeray  would  be 
sorely  puzzled  if  they  were  asked  to  tell  us  who  Ains 
worth  was,  and  exactly  when  he  lived,  or  to  give  a  syn 
opsis  of  the  plot  of  a  single  one  of  his  numerous  stories; 
and  he  has  been  dead  not  quite  thirty  years. 

Allibone  gives  him  but  fourteen  lines  of  biography, 
mostly  bitter  censure,  with  a  few  words  of  qualified 
praise  for  such  historical  tales  as  "St.  Paul's"  and  "The 
Tower".  The  indifference  to  him  is  not  limited  to 
general  readers  or  to  America.  Chamber's  Encyclo 
paedia  of  English  Literature  begrudges  him  twenty- 
nine  lines  of  depreciative  comment,  conceding  to  him 
dramatic  art  and  power,  but  denying  to  him  "originality 

83 


84  AT  THE  LIBRARY  TABLE 

or  felicity  of  humor  or  character".  He  is  not  even  men 
tioned  in  Mr.  Edmund  Gosse's  Modern  English  Litera 
ture,  and  Taine  does  not  condescend  to  give  his  name. 
In  the  History  of  Nicoll  and  Seccombe  no  reference  to 
him  can  be  found.  In  the  pretentious  volumes  of  the 
History  of  English  Literature  edited  by  Garnett  and 
Gosse  a  portrait  of  him  is  given  with  a  rough  draft  of  a 
Cruikshank  drawing;  and  this  is  what  is  said  of  him: 
"A  very  popular  exponent  of  the  grotesque  and  the 
sensational  in  historical  romance  was  William  Harrison 
Ainsworth  (1805-1882),  a  Manchester  solicitor,  who 
wrote  Rookwood,  1834,  Jack  Sheppard,  1839,  and  The 
Tower  of  London,  1840.  He  was  a  sort  of  Cruikshank 
of  the  pen,  delighting  in  violent  and  lurid  scenes, 
crowded  with  animated  figures".  This  is  rather  an 
absurd  mess  of  misinformation.  One  would  scarcely 
believe  that  there  was  a  time  when  he  was  esteemed  to 
be  a  worthy  rival  of  Charles  Dickens,  and  when  in  the 
eyes  of  the  critics  and  of  the  public  he  far  outshone 
Edward  Lytton  Buiwer. 

In  a  note  to  the  sketch  in  the  Dictionary  of  National 
Biography,  Mr.  W.  E.  A.  Axon  says  that  "no  biog 
raphy  of  Ainsworth  has  appeared  or  is  likely  to  be  pub 
lished."  The  fact  is  correctly  stated,  but  the  prediction 
may  not  be  fulfilled.  In  1902,  Mr.  Axon  himself 
expanded  the  Dictionary  article  and  made  it  into  an 
excellent  memoir  of  forty-three  pages,  but  only  a  few 
copies  were  printed.  It  contains  five  portraits.  A 
devoted  admirer  of  Ainsworth  has  been  for  some  years 
engaged  in  the  preparation  of  an  extended  biography. 
I  do  not  give  his  name,  for  he  probably  prefers  to  make 
the  announcement  at  his  own  time  and  in  his  own  way. 
A  few  years  ago  I  became  the  possessor  of  a  consider 
able  number  of  autographic  relics  of  Ainsworth,  includ- 


WILLIAM  HARRISON  AINSWORTH     85 

ing  a  memorandum  book  and  a  manuscript  volume  con 
taining  an  account  of  his  travels  in  Italy  in  1830,  dedi 
cated  to  his  wife,  with  a  poem;  some  letters  to  him  from 
Cruikshank;  thirty-six  pages  of  the  draft  of  ''Jack  Shep- 
pard",  and  more  than  two  hundred  of  his  own  letters. 
It  is  gratifying  to  know  that  my  friend  who  is  at  work 
on  the  "Life"  has  been  aided  by  this  little  collection. 

The  only  published  records  of  Ainsworth's  life,  other 
than  those  to  which  I  have  referred,  are,  as  far  as  I 
have  been  able  to  discover,  a  brief  memoir  by  Laman 
Blanchard  which  appeared  in  the  Mirror  in  1842  and 
was  reproduced  in  later  editions  of  "Rookwood";  a 
chapter  in  Madden's  Life  of  Lady  Blessington;  a  sketch 
by  James  Crossley  contributed  to  the  Routledge  edition 
of  the  Ballads  in  1855;  and  an  account  of  him  by 
William  Bates,  accompanying  a  semi-caricature  portrait 
in  the  Maclise  Portrait  Gallery. 

Ainsworth  was  born  in  his  father's  house  on  King 
Street,  Manchester,  February  4,  1805.  His  family  was 
"respectable"  in  the  English  sense,  for  his  grandfather 
on  his  mother's  side  was  a  Unitarian  minister,  and  his 
father  a  prosperous  solicitor.  It  was  from  the  mother 
that  he  inherited  in  1842  some  "landed  property"  to 
use  another  distinctively  English  phrase,  and  it  is  amus 
ing  to  observe  the  pride  of  Madden  when  he  boasts 
that  Ainsworth's  name  appears  in  Burke's  Landed 
Gentry.  He  attended  the  Free  Grammar  School  in 
Manchester,  where  it  is  said  that  he  was  proficient  in 
Latin  and  Greek,  and  as  he  was  expected  to  succeed  to 
his  father's  practice,  he  became  an  articled  clerk  in  the 
office  of  Mr.  Alexander  Kay,  at  the  age  of  sixteen.  He 
was  a  handsome  boy,  full  of  ambition,  but  his  ambition 
did  not  lead  him  in  the  dull  and  dusty  paths  which  so 
licitors  tread.  He  had  already  written  a  drama,  for 


86  AT  THE  LIBRARY  TABLE 

private  production,  which  was  printed  in  Arliss's  Mag 
azine,  and  a  number  of  sketches,  translations  and  minor 
papers  for  a  serial  called  The  Manchester  Iris,  and  he 
subsequently  conducted  a  periodical  styled  The  Boeo 
tian,  which  had  a  short  existence  of  six  months.  Before 
he  was  nineteen,  he  was  a  regular  contributor  to  the 
London  Magazine  and  the  Edinburgh  Magazine.  Some 
of  these  youthful  efforts  were  collected  in  "December 
Tales"  (1823),  which  also  contained  sketches  by  James 
Crossley  and  John  Partington  Aston.  In  1822  he  issued 
a  pamphlet  of  "Poems,  by  Cheviot  Tichborn",  which  as 
Mr.  Axon  informs  us,  is  quite  distinct  from  another 
pamphlet  called  "The  Works  of  Cheviot  Tichburn", 
printed  in  1825,  apparently  for  private  circulation. 

The  Tichborn  book  of  verses  was  dedicated  to 
Charles  Lamb.  The  author  was  a  devoted  admirer  of 
Elia,  and  as  early  as  1822  Lamb  had  lent  him  a  copy  of 
Cyril  Tourneur's  play  or  plays.  On  May  7,  1822, 
Lamb  wrote  to  him  a  letter,  (printed  in  The  Lambs, 
by  William  Carew  Hazlitt,  1897)  referring  to  the 
book  and  saying,  among  other  things,  "I  have  read 
your  poetry  with  pleasure.  The  tales  are  pretty  and 
prettily  told.  It  is  only  sometimes  a  little  careless,  I 
mean  as  to  redundancy."  The  letter  mentions  the  pro 
posed  dedication  deprecatingly  and  modestly. 

Talfourd,  Canon  Ainger  and  Fitzgerald  in  their  col 
lections  give  two  other  letters,  written  respectively  on 
December  9  and  December  29,  1823,  one  thanking 
Ainsworth  for  "books  and  compliments,"  and  the  other 
giving  Lamb-like  excuses  for  not  leaving  beloved  Lon 
don  to  pay  a  visit  to  Manchester.*  It  was  something 
of  an  honor  for  a  lad  of  seventeen  to  receive  the  praise 


*See  Temple  Bar  Edition,  iii,  51-52. 


WILLIAM  HARRISON  AINSWORTH     87 

of  Charles  Lamb,  who  appears  to  have  discovered  one 
of  his  young  correspondent's  besetting  sins — redund 
ancy.  But  it  may  not  have  meant  much,  for  in  those 
days  they  exchanged  compliments  more  profusely  than 
is  customary  at  the  present  time. 

All  these  excursions  in  the  field  of  authorship  were 
fatal  to  the  grave  study  of  the  law,  for  which  he  had 
no  taste,  and  although  when  his  father  died  in  1824  he 
went  to  London  to  finish  his  term  with  Mr.  Jacob  Phil 
lips  of  the  Inner  Temple,  it  was  a  foregone  conclusion 
that,  whatever  his  career  might  be,  it  would  not  be  that 
of  a  solicitor.  About  1826,  one  John  Ebers,  a  publisher 
in  Bond  Street,  and  also  manager  of  the  Opera  House, 
brought  out  a  novel  called  "Sir  John  Chiverton,"  which 
received  the  favor  of  Sir  Walter  Scott,  who  said  of  it  in 
his  diary  (October  17,  1826),  that  he  had  read  it  with 
interest,  and  that  it  was  "a  clever  book,"  at  the  same 
time  asserting  that  he  himself  was  the  originator  of  the 
style  in  which  it  was  written.  For  many  years  it  was 
supposed  that  Ainsworth  was  its  sole  author,  but  it  was 
claimed  in  1877  by  Mr.  John  Partington  Aston,  a  law 
yer,  who  had  been  a  fellow-clerk  of  Ainsworth's  in  Mr. 
Kay's  office,  and  the  book  was  probably  the  result  of 
collaboration.  The  dedicatory  verses  are  supposed  to 
have  been  addressed  to  Anne  Frances  Ebers,  John 
Ebers'  daughter,  whom  Ainsworth  married  on  Octo 
ber  n,  1826.  Soon  afterwards  he  seems  to  have  been 
occupied  in  editing  one  of  those  absurd  "Annuals"  so 
common  in  those  days,  for  we  find  Tom  Moore  record 
ing  in  his  journal  in  1827,  that  he  had  been  asked  to 
edit  the  Forget-Me-Not  to  begin  with  the  second  num 
ber,  "as  the  present  editor  is  Mr.  Ainsworth  (I  think), 
the  son-in-law  of  Ebers."  The  compensation  offered  to 
Moore  was  £500,  which  indicates  that  such  work  was 


88  AT  THE  LIBRARY  TABLE 

paid  for  liberally,  but  it  is  not  likely  that  Ainsworth  re 
ceived  as  much.  A  year  or  so  after  the  marriage — 
within  a  year  in  fact — he  followed  his  father-in-law's 
advice  and  became  himself  a  publisher  and  a  book-seller ; 
but  at  the  end  of  eighteen  months  he  decided  to  abandon 
the  business. 

If  we  may  judge  by  one  of  the  letters  in  my  collec 
tion,  it  is  not  surprising  that  he  was  not  overwhelmingly 
successful.  He  writes  to  Thomas  Hill  for  a  notice  in 
the  Chronicle  of  a  book  the  copyright  of  which  he  had 
recently  purchased,  adding,  "the  work  is  really  a  most 
scientific  one — indeed  the  only  distinct  treatise  on  Con 
fectionery  extant."  Perhaps  this  was  the  work  of  Ude, 
the  cook,  whose  publisher  he  was;  but  he  also  "brought 
out"  Caroline  Norton  as  an  author,  of  whom  he  writes 
to  Charles  Oilier,  in  his  graceful,  rather  lady-like 
chirography : 

"Is  it  not  possible  [to]  get  me  a  short  notice  of  the 
enclosed  into  the  new  Monthly?  By  so  doing  you  will 
infinitely  oblige  one  of  the  most  beautiful  women  in  the 
world — the  Hon.  Mrs.  Norton,  the  granddaughter  of 
Richard  Brinsley  Sheridan." 

In  1827  he  published  for  Thomas  Hood  two  volumes 
of  "National  Tales,"  which  are  said  to  be  the  poorest 
books  written  by  Hood.  Christopher  North  said  of 
them:  "I  am  glad  to  see  that  they  are  published  by 
Mr.  Ainsworth  to  whom  I  wish  all  success  in  his  new 
profession.  He  is  himself  a  young  gentleman  of  tal 
ents,  and  his  Sir  John  Chiverton  is  a  spirited  and  ro 
mantic  performance."* 

It  was  for  an  annual  issued  by  him  that  Sir  Walter 
Scott  wrote  the  "Bonnets  of  Bonnie  Dundee,"  and  the 


:Blackwood,  April,  1827. 


WILLIAM  HARRISON  AINSWORTH     89 

story  is  told  by  Mr.  Axon  that  Sir  Walter  received 
twenty  guineas  for  it,  but  laughingly  handed  them  over 
to  the  little  daughter  of  Lockhart,  at  whose  house  he 
and  Ainsworth  met.  He  wrote  some  fragmentary  and 
miscellaneous  prose  and  verse,  not  of  much  importance ; 
and  in  1828  he  travelled  through  Belgium  and  up  the 
Rhine,  going  to  Switzerland  and  Italy  in  1830.  The 
manuscript  note-books  which  lie  before  me,  the  paper 
foxed  and  the  ink  faded,  comprise  a  diary  of  the  Italian 
part  of  the  journey.  I  have  toiled  over  the  one  hun 
dred  and  sixty-eight  pages,  not  always  easily  decipher 
able,  but  have  found  little  which  exceeds  in  value  the 
ordinary  guide-book  of  our  own  time.  It  was,  we  must 
remember,  written  only  for  his  wife — whom  he  consid 
erately  left  at  home — and  the  dedicatory  poem  to  her, 
consisting  of  fifty-eight  unrhymed  lines,  written  in 
Venice  in  September,  1830,  is  quite  as  commonplace  as 
might  be  expected  from  a  man  of  twenty-five,  with  little 
poetic  inspiration  but  endowed  with  much  verbal  flu 
ency,  who  was  not  writing  for  publication. 

Soon  after  his  return  from  the  Continent,  Ainsworth 
began  the  work  from  which  he  was  to  derive  his  chief 
title  to  fame — the  composing  of  novels.  It  has  been 
said  that  he  was  inspired  by  Mrs.  Radcliffe,  whose 
gloomy  mysteries,  weird  scenes,  and  supernatural  ma 
chinery  once  made  her  a  favorite  with  fiction-lovers,  and 
that  he  sought  to  adapt  old  legends  to  English  soil. 
Others  have  ascribed  his  impulse  to  the  influence  of  the 
French  dramatic  romancers,  Eugene  Sue,  Victor  Hugo, 
and  Alexandre  Dumas.  I  question  whether  he  owed  his 
inspiration  to  any  particular  source,  although  all  these 
writers  may  have  affected  his  temperament.  Perhaps 
he  unconsciously  divined  the  needs  of  the  reading  public, 
of  which  his  editorial  experience  may  have  taught  him 


90  AT  THE  LIBRARY  TABLE 

much.  The  inane,  fashionable  novel  had  become  tire 
some.  Moreover,  it  was  a  time,  in  the  early  thirties, 
when  the  nation  of  England  was  absorbed  in  the  growth 
of  her  material  prosperity,  and  when  a  country  is  en 
grossed  in  commerce  and  manufactures,  in  the  produc 
tion  of  wealth,  tales  of  adventure  seem  necessary  to 
stimulate  flagging  imagination.  We  have  seen  the  evi 
dence  of  it  in  our  own  land  during  the  past  ten 
years,  when  casting  aside  the  metaphysical,  the 
psychological,  the  long  drawn-out  analyses  of  character, 
the  public  eagerly  devoured  story  after  story  of  fights 
and  wars,  and  daring  deeds,  whose  lucky  authors  bore  off 
rewards  of  fabulous  amount  and  grew  rich  upon  the 
royalties  earned  by  their  hundreds  of  thousands  of  cop 
ies. 

We  are  told  by  Mr.  Axon  that  "the  inspiration  came 
to  him  when  on  a  visit  to  Chesterfield  in  1831".  He 
had  visited  Cuckfield  Place,  thought  by  Shelley  to  b6 
"like  bits  of  Mrs.  Radcliffe",  and  it  occurred  to  Ains- 
worth  that  he  might  make  something  of  an  English 
story  constructed  upon  similar  lines.  Begun  in  1831, 
his  "Rookwood"  was  published  in  1834.  It  has  gener 
ally  been  considered  by  critics  to  be  a  powerful  but 
uneven  story,  and  it  leaped  at  once  into  popularity, 
carrying  with  it  the  youthful  author.  "The  Romany 
Chant"  and  "Dick  Turpin's  Ride  to  York"  were  the 
chief  features;  but  the  Ride  was  the  thing,  like  the 
chariot  race  in  Ben-Hur.  It  was  actually  dashed  off  in 
the  glow  of  enthusiasm,  the  white  heat  of  imagination. 
It  was,  says  George  Augustus  Sala,  "a  piece  of  word 
painting  rarely  if  ever  surpassed  in  the  prose  of  the 
Victorian  Era,"*  and  he  said  this  sixty  years  after  the 


*Sala's  Life  and  Adventures  (1896)  83. 


WILLIAM  HARRISON  AINSWORTH     91 

novel  appeared.  Ainsworth  has  told  us  the  circum 
stances.  "I  wrote  it"  he  said  "in  twenty-four  hours  of 
continuous  work.  I  had  previously  arranged  the  meet 
ing  at  Kilburn  Wells,  and  the  death  of  Tom  King — a 
work  of  some  little  time — but  from  the  moment  I  got 
Turpin  on  the  high  road,  I  wrote  on  and  on  till  I  landed 
him  at  York.  I  performed  this  literary  feat,  as  you  are 
pleased  to  call  it,  without  the  slightest  sense  of  effort. 
I  began  in  the  morning,  wrote  all  day,  and  as  night  wore 
on,  my  subject  had  completely  mastered  me,  and  I  had 
no  power  to  leave  Turpin  on  the  high  road.  I  was 
swept  away  by  the  curious  excitement  and  novelty  of  the 
situation;  and  being  personally  a  good  horseman,  pas 
sionately  fond  of  horses,  and  possessed  moreover  of 
accurate  knowledge  of  a  great  part  of  the  country,  I 
was  thoroughly  at  home  with  my  work,  and  galloped  on 
with  my  pet  highwayman  merrily  enough.  I  must,  how 
ever,  confess  that  when  my  work  was  in  proof,  I  went 
over  the  ground  between  London  and  York  to  verify 
the  distances  and  localities,  and  was  not  a  little  surprised 
at  my  accuracy."  This  tour  de  force — the  composition 
of  a  hundred  novel  pages  in  so  short  a  time,  was  per 
formed  at  "The  Elms,"  a  house  at  Kilburn  where  he 
was  then  living.  It  brings  to  mind  the  familiar  story  of 
Beckford,  writing  Vathek  in  French,  in  a  single  sitting 
of  three  days  and  two  nights,  which  is  more  or  less 
apochryphal. 

It  is  a  proof  of  the  merit  and  of  the  success  of  this 
chapter  that,  like  many  other  successful  literary  efforts, 
it  was  "claimed"  by  some  one  else.  Mr.  Bates  refers 
rather  indignantly  to  an  assertion  of  R.  Shelton  Mac 
kenzie,  made  upon  the  authority  of  Dr.  Kenealy,  and 
contained  in  the  fifth  volume  of  an  American  edition  of 
the  Nodes  Ambrosianae,  that  Doctor  William  Maginn, 


92  AT  THE  LIBRARY  TABLE 

of  convivial  fame,  wrote  the  "Ride"  as  well  as  all  the 
slang  songs  in  "Rookwood."  But  Maginn  was  seldom 
sober  and  doubtless  he  bragged  in  his  cups.  Kenealy 
believed  in  Arthur  Orton,  the  Tichborne  "claimant," 
and  was  capable  of  believing  in  any  claimant,  particu 
larly  if  he  was  an  Irishman;  while  Mackenzie  was  not 
•celebrated  for  acumen  or  accuracy.  Sala  says  of  the 
absurd  tale :  "As  to  the  truth  or  falsehood  of  this  allega 
tion  I  am  wholly  incompetent  to  pronounce ;  but  looking 
at  Ainsworth's  striking  and  powerful  pictures  of  the 
Plague  and  the  Fire  in  his  'Old  St.  Paul's,'  and  the 
numerous  studies  of  Tudor  life  in  his  'Tower  of  Lon 
don,'  I  should  say  that  'Turpin's  Ride  to  York'  was  a 
performance  altogether  within  the  compass  of  his 
capacity." 

In  the  light  of  later  years,  it  is  interesting  to  observe 
the  comparisons  made  between  Bulwer  and  Ainsworth. 
In  Eraser's  Magazine  for  June,  1834,  there  is  a  review 
of  "Rookwood"  in  which  the  author  is  praised  far 
beyond  the  writer  of  Eugene  Aram  and  Paul  Clifford. 
Bulwer,  according  to  Sala,  was  fated  "to  be  beaten  on 
his  own  ground  by  another  writer  of  fiction  very  much 
his  inferior  in  genius;  but  who  was  nevertheless 
endowed  with  a  considerable  amount  of  melodramatic 
power,  and  who  had  acquired  a  conspicuous  facility  for 
dramatic  description."  It  may  be  that  the  defeat  drove 
Bulwer  to  those  other  fields  in  which  he  won  the  reputa 
tion  which  has  preserved  his  name  while  that  of  his  con 
queror  of  seventy  years  ago  has  faded  sadly. 

It  was  erroneously  believed  by  many  that  Ainsworth 
must  have  had  some  personal  acquaintance  with  low  life 
in  London  because  of  the  ease  with  which  he  dealt  with 
the  thieves'  jargon,  but  his  knowledge  of  it  was  but 


WILLIAM  HARRISON  AINSWORTH     93 

second-hand  for  he  obtained  it  from  the  autobiography 
of  James  Hardy  Vaux.*  A  second  edition  of  "Rook- 
wood"  illustrated  by  George  Cruikshank,  appeared  in 
1836. 

Ainsworth  was  now  a  conspicuous  man,  and  his 
celebrity  as  an  author,  combined  with  his  personal 
attractions,  made  him  a  welcome  guest  at  many  houses, 
notably  at  Gore  House,  where  Lady  Blessington  so 
long  held  sway — "jolly  old  girl",  he  calls  her  in  one  of 
my  letters,  written  in  1836.  The  beauty  at  forty-seven 
was  as  fascinating  as  ever.  "Everybody  goes  to  Lady 
Blessington's",  says  Haydon  in  his  Diary.  The  effer 
vescent  Sala  tells  of  meeting  Ainsworth  there  in  a  later 
time.  "I  think",  he  says,  "that  on  the  evening  in  ques 
tion  there  were  present,  among  others,  Daniel  Maclise, 
the  painter,  and  Ainsworth,  the  novelist.  The  author 
of  "Jack  Sheppard"  was  then  a  young  man  of  about 
thirty,  very  handsome,  but  somewhat  of  the  curled  and 
oiled  and  glossy-whiskered  D'Orsay  type".  The 
D'Orsay  type  was  by  no  means  distasteful  to  my  lady. 
Sala  relates  at  second-hand  the  anecdote  about  Lady 
Blessington  placing  herself  between  D'Orsay  and  Ains 
worth,  and  saying  that  she  had  for  supporters  the  two 
handsomest  men  in  London. 

He  was  a  favorite  contributor  to  Eraser's  Magazine, 
and  his  portrait  appears  among  "The  Fraserians", 
indeed  a  goodly  company,  for  there  are  Coleridge, 
Southey,  James  Hogg,  Lockhart,  D'Orsay,  Thackeray, 
Carlyle,  Washington  Irving,  Sir  David  Brewster,  and 
Theodore  Hook,  with  many  others.  In  the  letter-press 
which  accompanied  the  portrait,. — supposed  to  have 


*Axon's    Memoir,    xxiii:    The   World,    March    28, 
1878. 


94  AT  THE  LIBRARY  TABLE 

been  written  by  Magmn — the  Magazine  says:  "May 
he  turn  out  many  novels  better,  none  worse,  than  'Rock- 
wood';  may  he,  as  far  as  is  consistent  with  the  frailty 
of  humanity,  penetrate  puffery,  and  avoid  the  three 
insatiables  of  Solomon,  King  of  Israel." 

In  1837,  "Crichton"  was  published,  the  hero  being 
James  Crichton,  the  "Admirable",  about  whose  name 
has  grown  so  much  that  is  fabulous,  but  who  was  nev 
ertheless  a  real  person.  The  story  was  illustrated  by 
Hablot  K.  Browne.  It  was  fairly  successful;  some 
regard  it  as  in  many  respects  his  best  novel ;  but  while 
it  did  not  add  materially  to  his  fame,  it  did  not  diminish 
it.  It  was  well  done;  the  author  spared  no  pains  and 
as  usual  with  him  was  careful  in  his  researches.  In  the 
introductory  essay  and  in  the  appendices,  which  Sidney 
Lee  pronounces  "very  interesting",  he  re-printed,  with 
translations  in  verse,  Crichton's  Elegy  on  Borromeo 
and  the  eulogy  on  Visconti.  Madden  intimates  that 
D'Orsay  occasionally  figured  as  the  model  of  the  ac 
complished  hero.  The  author  received  £350  for  the 
book — more  than  for  "Rookwood".  He  had  become  a 
figure  in  the  literary  world  and  his  name  was  something 
with  which  to  conjure. 

In  January,  1837,  Richard  Bentley  began  the  publi 
cation  of  Bentley's  Miscellany  under  the  editorship  of 
Charles  Dickens.  There  is  a  familiar  story  that  the 
name  originally  proposed  was  "The  Wit's  Miscellany," 
and  that  when  the  change  was  mentioned  in  the  pres 
ence  of  "Ingoldsby"  Barham  (not  Douglus  Jerrold,  as 
often  supposed),  he  remarked  "Why  go  to  the  other 
extreme?"  In  January,  1839,  Dickens  turned  over  the 
office  of  editor  to  Ainsworth,  with  "a  familiar  epistle 
from  a  parent  to  his  child".*  Oliver  Twist  had  just 

*Forster's  Dickens,  i.   141. 


WILLIAM  HARRISON  AINSWORTH     95 

been  the  feature  of  the  Miscellany,  and  now  Ainsworth 
made  his  second  and  most  celebrated  venture  in  what 
Sala  calls  "felonious  fiction" — the  immortal  "Jack  Shep 
pard." 

There  are  some  conflicting  statements  about  dates. 
Madden  says,  in  one  place,  "In  1841  he  [Ainsworth] 
became  the  editor  of  'Bentley's  Miscellany',"  and  on 
the  next  page,  "In  the  spring  of  1839  he  replaced  Dick 
ens  in  the  editorship  of  'Bentley's  Miscellany,'  and  con 
tinued  as  editor  till  1841."*  He  also  says  that  in  1839 
the  novel,  to  be  called  "Thames  Darrell,"  was  adver 
tised  to  appear  periodically  in  the  Miscellany,  then  ed 
ited  by  Charles  Dickens. t  Robert  Harrison  in  the  Dic 
tionary  of  National  Biography  (title  Bentley)  says 
that  Dickens  retired  from  the  post  of  editor  in  January, 
1839.  Mr.  Axo<n  tells  us  in  the  Dictionary  that  Ains 
worth  became  the  editor  in  March,  1840,  but  in  the 
"Memoir"  he  assigns  the  event  to  the  year  1838.  For- 
ster  puts  the  date  1839,  which  seems  to  be  correct,  and 
the  discrepancies  are  no  doubt  susceptible  of  explana 
tion.  The  first  number  of  "Jack  Sheppard"  appeared  in 
the  number  for  January,  1839. 

The  success  of  "Rookwood"  and  Oliver  Twist  led  to 
the  new  essay  in  the  series  which  the  sanctimonious  Alli- 
bone  says  might  be  very  appropriately  published  under 
the  title  of  the  "Tyburn  Plutarch" — not  a  very  sane  or 
witty  remark  in  my  opinion.  Ainsworth  cast  over  the 
scamp  Jack  Sheppard  the  mantle  of  romance,  and  made 
him  "a  dashing  young  blood  of  illicitly  noble  descent, 
who  dressed  sumptuously  and  lived  luxuriously" — 
whose  escapes  from  Newgate  and  other  adventures  were 


*Life  of  Lady  Blessington,  iii.  226,  227. 
.,  iii.  224. 


96  AT  THE  LIBRARY  TABLE 

described  with  a  charm  and  vigor  which  took  the  pub 
lic  captive.  The  sale  exceeded  even  that  of  Oliver 
Twist,  and  no  fewer  than  eight  versions  were  pro 
duced  upon  the  London  stage.  Mr.  Keeley  achieved 
great  notoriety  as  the  hero,  and  Paul  Bedford  first 
made  his  mark  in  the  character  of  Blueskin. 

It  was  not  until  these  dramatic  productions  appeared 
that  the  sedate  and  fastidious  began  the  outcry  against 
the  so-called  criminal  school  of  romance ;  an  outcry  per 
petuated  in  Chambers'  Encyclopaedia  and  in  Allibone's 
Dictionary.  The  author  and  the  novel  were  bitterly  at 
tacked.  The  main  ground  of  denunciation  seems  to 
have  been'  the  belief  that  the  lower  orders  might  be 
aroused  to  emulate  the  brilliant  robber,  all  of  which  is 
sheer  nonsense.  I  am  tempted  to  quote  at  length  from 
a  letter  of  Miss  Mitford,  the  personification  of  an  old 
maid,  because  it  contains  an  epitome  of  the  adverse 
criticism  as  well  as  a  little  biographical  note  which  I 
have  not  encountered  elsewhere. 

"I  have  been  reading  'Jack  Sheppard,'  "  she  writes  to 
Miss  Barrett,*  "and  have  been  struck  by  the  great 
danger  in  these  times,  of  representing  authorities  so  con 
stantly  and  fearfully  in  the  wrong ;  so  tyrranous,  so  dev 
ilish,  as  the  author  has  been  pleased  to  portray  it  in 
'Jack  Sheppard,'  for  he  does  not  seem  so  much  a  man 
or  even  an  incarnate  fiend,  as  a  representation  of  power 
— government  or  law,  call  it  as  you  may — the  ruling 
power.  Of  course,  Mr.  Ainsworth  had  no  such  de 
sign,  but  such  is  the  effect;  and  as  the  millions  who  see 
it  represented  at  the  minor  theatres  will  not  distinguish 
between  now  and  a  hundred  years  back,  all  the  Char 
tists  in  the  land  are  less  dangerous  than  this  nightmare 


*  January  3,  1840:     Letters,  Am.  Edition,  1870,  ii. 
p.  218. 


WILLIAM  HARRISON  AINSWORTH     97 

of  a  book,  and  I,  Radical  as  I  am,  lament  any  additional 
temptations  to  outbreak,  with  all  its  train  of  horrors. 
Seriously,  what  things  these  are — the  Jack  Sheppards, 
and  Squeers's,  and  Oliver  Twists,  and  Michael  Arm 
strongs — all  the  worse  for  the  power  which  except  the 
last,  the  others  contain !  Grievously  the  worse !  My 
friend,  Mr.  Hughes,  speaks  well  of  Mr.  Ainsworth. 
His  father  was  a  collector  of  these  old  robber  stories, 
and  used  to  repeat  the  local  ballads  upon  Turpin,  etc., 
to  his  son  as  he  sat  upon  his  knee ;  and  this  has  perhaps 
been  at  the  bottom  of  the  matter.  A  good  antiquarian 
I  believe  him  to  be,  but  what  a  use  to  make  of  the  pic 
turesque  old  knowledge!  Well,  one  comfort  is  that  it 
will  wear  itself  out;  and  then  it  will  be  cast  aside  like  an 
old  fashion." 

The  latter  part  of  the  prophecy  has  come  very  near 
to  fulfillment;  but  we  have  no  proof  that  the  awful 
novel  caused  any  marked  increase  of  crime.  The  real 
utility  and  value  of  stories  like  "Jack  Sheppard"  may 
well  be  questioned,  for  they  surely  do  not  belong  to  the 
highest  and  best  in  literature,  but  that  any  one  became  a 
thief  or  a  highway  robber  because  of  them  is  yet  to  be 
demonstrated. 

It  was  said,  and  Ainsworth  believed  it,  that  the  fact 
that  "Jack  Sheppard"  had  a  better  sale  than  Oliver 
Twist  was  the  cause  of  some  falling-off  in  the  friendship 
which  had  existed  between  him  and  John  Forster,  who 
adored  Dickens;  and  it  is  true  that  the  Examiner,  of 
which  paper  Forster  was  the  chief  literary  critic,  made 
an  attack  on  the  book.  It  is  odd  that  Forster  should 
have  met  Dickens  for  the  first  time  at  Ainsworth's 
house.*  There  was  some  sort  of  friction  among  the 
three  friends  about  the  time  when  "Jack  Sheppard"  was 


*Forster's  Life  of  Dickens,  I,  1 18. 


98  AT  THE  LIBRARY  TABLE 

in  the  full  tide  of  favor  and  Dickens  was  closing  the 
troublesome  negotiations  with  Bentley  about  the  copy 
right  of  the  unpublished  Barnaby  Rudge.  A  letter  of 
Dickens  to  Ainsworth  in  my  collection  throws  some 
light  upon  the  matter.  As  it  has  never  been  printed,  to 
the  best  of  my  knowledge,  and  as  it  cannot  fail  to  be  of 
interest  to  Dickens-lovers,  I  may  be  pardoned  for  giving 
it  in  full : 

"Doughty  Street, 

Tuesday  morning,  March  26th,  1839. 
My  dear  Ainsworth  : 

If  the  subject  of  this  letter  or  anything  contained  in 
it,  should  eventually  become  the  occasion  of  any  dis 
agreement  between  you  and  me,  it  would  cause  me  very 
deep  and  sincere  regret.  But  with  this  contingency — 
even  this — before  me,  I  feel  that  I  must  speak  out  with 
out  reserve  and  that  every  manly,  honest  and  just  con 
sideration  compels  me  to  do  so. 

By  some  means — by  what  means  in  the  first  instance 
I  scarcely  know — the  late  negotiations  between  yourself, 
myself  and  Mr.  Bentley  have  placed  a  mutual  friend  of 
ours  in  a  false  position  and  one  in  which  he  has  no  right 
to  stand;  and  exposed  him  to  an  accusation — very  rife 
and  current  indeed  just  now — equally  untrue  and  unde 
served,  namely  that  he,  who  a  short  time  before  had 
pledged  himself  to  Mr.  Bentley  (in  the  presence  of  Mr. 
Follett)  to  see  my  last  agreement  with  that  person  exe 
cuted  and  carried  out,  counselled  me  to  break  it  and  in 
fact  entangled  and  entrapped  the  innocent  and  unsus 
pecting  bookseller — who  being  all  honesty  himself  had 
a  child-like  confidence  in  others — into  taking  such  steps 
as  led  to  that  result. 

Now  I  wish  to  remind  you — for  a  purpose  which  I 
will  tell  you  presently — that  even  by  me  no  agreement 
whatever  was  broken ;  that  I  demanded  a  postponement 
of  my  agreement  for  the  term  of  six  months — that 
Forster  (to  whom  I  have  been  alluding  of  course) 


WILLIAM  HARRISON  AINSWORTH     99 

expressly  and  positively  said  when  you  pressed  upon  me 
the  hardship  of  my  relations  with  that  noblest  work  of 
God,  in  New  Burlington  Street,  that  he  could  not  and 
would  not  be  any  party  to  a  new  disruption  between  us 
— that  he  was  bound  to  see  the  old  agreement  per 
formed — that  he  wrote  to  Mr.  Bentley  warning  him  of 
my  dissatisfaction. — that  he  saw  Mr.  Bentley  for  a  full 
hour,  in  his  own  rooms  (a  man  must  be  in  earnest  to  do 
that) — read  to  him  a  letter  of  mine  in  which  I  had 
expressed  my  feelings  on  the  subject,  and  strongly  urged 
upon  him  the  necessity  and  propriety  of  some  concession 
— that  Mr.  Bentley  went  away  thanking  him  and 
appointing  to  call  again — that  he  never  called  again — 
that  he  wrote  me  an  insulting  letter  dictated  by  his  law 
yers — that  Forster  then  washed  his  hands  of  any  further 
interference  between  us — that  Mr.  Bentley  then  went 
out  to  you  at  Kensal  Green — and  that  you  and  he, 
between  you,  and  without  any  previous  consultation  or 
advising  with  Forster  settled  upon  certain  terms  and 
conditions  which  were  afterwards  proposed  to  me 
through  you,  and  communicated  to  Forster,  for  the  first 
time  and  to  his  unbounded  astonishment,  by  both  of  us. 
I  remind  you  of  all  this  because  Mr.  Bentley  is  going 
about  town  stating  in  every  quarter  what  may  or  may 
not  be  his  real  impression  of  Forster's  course — because 
Mr.  Bentley  does  not  appeal  as  an  authority  to  you — 
because  you  do  countenance  Mr.  Bentley  in  these  pro 
ceedings  by  hearing  him  express  his  opinion  of  Forster 
and  not  contradicting  him — and  have  aggravated  him, 
indeed,  by  such  thoughtless  acts  as  first  procuring  an 
unfavorable  notice  of  the  Miscellany  in  the  Examiner 
(by  dint  of  urgent  solicitations)  and  then  shewing  it  to 
him  with  assumed  vexation  and  displeasure.  I  remind 
you  of  all  this,  because  Forster  must  and  shall  be  set 
right — not  with  Mr.  Bentley  but  with  the  men  to  whom 
these  stories  are  carried  and  his  friends  as  well  as  foes 
— because  there  are  but  two  persons  who  can  set  him 
right — and  because  I  wish  to  know  distinctly  from  you 
who  shall  do  so,  without  the  delay  of  an  instant — you 
or  I. 


ioo  AT  THE  LIBRARY  TABLE 

There  is  another  reason  which  renders  this  absolutely 
necessary.  Forster,  acting  for  Mr.  Savage  Landor, 
arranged  with  Mr.  Bentley  for  the  publication  of  two 
tragedies  by  that  gentleman,  which  were  proceeding 
rapidly  through  the  press  when  these  matters  occurred, 
and  have  since  been  taken  from  the  printers  by  Mr. 
Bentley — not  published,  though  the  time  agreed  upon 
is  long  past;  not  advertised,  though  they  should  have 
been  long  ago — their  existence  not  recognized  in  anyway 
— and  all  this  as  a  means  of  annoyance  and  revenge 
against  Forster  who  is  placed  in  the  most  painful  situa 
tion  with  regard  to  Mr.  Landor  that  it  is  possible  to 
conceive.  Mr.  Landor  who  holds  such  men  as  Mr. 
Bentley  in  as  little  consideration  as  the  mud  of  the 
streets,  and  who  is  violent  and  reckless  when  exasper 
ated,  is  as  certain  by  some  public  act  to  punish  the  book 
seller  for  this  treatment  (if  he  be  not  prevented  by  an 
immediate  atonement)  as  the  sun  is  to  rise  to-morrow. 
This  would  entail  upon  me  the  immediate  necessity,  in 
explanation  of  the  circumstances  which  led  to  it,  of  lay 
ing  a  full  history  of  these  proceedings  before  the  public, 
and  the  consequence  would  be  that  we  and  our  private 
affairs  would  be  dragged  into  newspaper  notoriety  and 
involved  in  controversy  and  discussion,  for  the  pain  of 
which  nothing  could  ever  compensate. 

But  however  painful  it  will  be  to  me  to  put  myself 
in  communication  once  again  with  Mr.  Bentley,  and 
openly  appeal  to  you  to  confirm  what  I  shall  tell  him, 
I  have  no  alternative  unless  you  will  frankly  and  openly 
and  for  the  sake  of  your  old  friend  as  well  as  my  inti 
mate  and  valued  one,  avow  to  Mr.  Bentley  yourself  that 
he  is  not  to  blame,  that  you  heard  him  again  and  again 
refuse  to  interfere  although  deeply  impressed  with  the 
hardship  of  my  case — and  that  you  proposed  conces 
sions  which  he — feeling  the  position  in  which  he  stood 
— could  not  have  suggested.  Believe  me,  Ainsworth, 
that  for  your  sake  no  less  than  on  Forster's  account, 
this  should  be  done.  You  do  not  see  it  I  know,  you  do 
not  mean  it  I  am  persuaded,  but  he  is  impressed  with 
the  idea,  and  nine  men  out  of  ten  would  be  (if  these 


WILLIAM  HARRISON  AINSWORTH   101 

matters  were  stated  by  anybody  but  you)  that  to  enable 
yourself  to  gain  your  object  and  stand  in  your  present 
relations  towards  Mr.  Bentley,  you  have  used  him  as  an 
instrument  by  suppressing  that  which  would  have  shewn 
his  conduct  in  the  best  and  truest  light,  and  have  shrunk 
from  the  friendly  and  manly  avowal  of  feeling  which 
your  own  impulses  and  freer  and  less  worldly  considera 
tions  so  generously  prompted. 

Once  more  let  me  say  that  I  do  not  mean  to  hurt  or 
offend  you  by  anything  I  have  said,  and  that  I  should 
be  truly  grieved  to  find  I  have  done  so.  But  I  must 
speak  strongly  because  I  feel  strongly,  and  because  I 
have  a  misgiving  that  even  now  I  have  been  silent  too 
long.  •  ; .'»,  i  \  ; 

My  dear  Ainsworth,  I  am      ^ 

Faithfully  yours/     /•,  •       {'. ' ; * ; » |; .' >. s 
Charles  Dickeris: ' 

William  Ainsworth  Esquire." 

The  little  quarrel,  if  it  was  a  quarrel,  must  have 
been  composed  amicably,  for  Forster  in  his  Life  of 
Dickens  refers  several  times  to  Ainsworth  in  a  kind  and 
appreciative  way. 

In  1840  Ainsworth  and  George  Cruikshank  brought 
out  the  "Tower  of  London"  in  monthly  numbers,  and 
were  equal  partners  in  the  enterprise.  It  has  always 
been  regarded  as  a  work  of  merit.  In  1841  the  author 
received  £1000  from  the  Sunday  Times  for  "Old  St. 
Paul's",  and  it  was  later  one  of  Cruikshank's  griev 
ances  that  he  was  not  associated  in  this  production,  the 
idea  of  which  he  insisted  was  his  own.  Among  my  let 
ters  is  one  written  by  Cruikshank  to  Ainsworth  on  the 
subject,  which  has  not,  as  far  as  I  know,  been  published, 
and  I  give  it  because  it  reveals  the  relations  of  the  two 
men  quite  distinctly. 


102  AT  THE  LIBRARY  TABLE 

"Amwell  St.,  March  4,   1841. 
MY  DEAR  AINSWORTH  : — 

Mr.  Pettigrew  called  here  yesterday  and  stated  your 
proposition.  Had  that  proposal  been  made  any  time 
between  last  December  up  to  about  a  fortnight  back  I 
should  have  been  happy,  most  happy,  to  have  accepted 
the  offer — but  now  I  am  sorry  to  say,  but  I  cannot — 
no,  I  have  so  far  committed  myself  with  various  parties 
that  if  I  were  to  withdraw  my  projected  publication  I 
am  sure  that  I  should  be  a  laughing  stock  to  some  and 
what  is  worse — I  fear  that  with  others  I  should  lose 
all  title  to  honor  or  integrity.  I  do  assure  you,  my 
dear  Ainswpith, 'I  sincerely  regret — that  I  cannot  join 
c  you  in  this  work,  but  what  was  I  to  think — what  con- 
rclusioji]w.a(s  I  to  come  to  but  that  you  had  cut  me.  At 
*th£  iat'ter'  end  of  last  year  you  announced  that  we  were 
preparing  a  "new  work!"  in  the  early  part  of  Decem 
ber  last.  I  saw  by  an  advertisement  that  your  "new 
work"  was  to  be  published  in  the  "Sunday  Times." 
You  do  not  come  to  me  or  send  for  me  nor  send  me  any 
explanations.  I  meet  you  at  Dickens's  on  "New  Year's 
Eve."  You  tell  me  then  that  you  will  see  me  in  a  few 
days  and  explain  everything  to  my  satisfaction.  I  hear 
nothing  from  you.  In  your  various  notes  about  the 
"Guy  Fawkes"  you  do  not  even  advert  to  the  subject. 
I  purposely  keep  myself  disengaged  refusing  many  ad 
vantageous  offers  of  work — still  I  hear  nothing  from 
you.  At  lenth  (sic)  you  announce  a  New  Work  as 
a  companion  to  the  "Tower"!  without  my  name  I 
then  conclude  that  you  do  not  intend  to  join  me  in  any 
"New  Work"  and  therefore  determine  to  do  some 
thing  for  myself — indeed  I  could  hold  out  no  longer — 
to  show  that  others  besides  myself  considered  that  you 
had  left  me,  I  was  applied  to  by  Chapman  &  Hall  to 
join  with  them  and  Mr.  Dickens  in  a  speculation  which 
indeed  I  promised  to  do  should  the  one  with  Mr.  Felt 
be  abandoned.  However  I  have  still  to  hope  that  when 
you  are  disengaged  from  Mr.  Bentley  that  some  ar- 


WILLIAM  HARRISON  AINSWORTH   103 

rangements  may  be  made  which  may  tend  to  our  ma 
terial  benefit. 

I  remain,  my  dear  Ainsworth,  yours  very  truly, 

GEO.  CRUIKSHANK." 

In  1841,  Ainsworth  published  the  "Guy  Fawkes" 
mentioned  in  Cruikshank's  letter.  About  this  time  he 
seems  to  have  become  involved  in  disagreements  with 
Bentley.  On  June  22,  1841,  he  wrote  to  Oilier: 

"I  am  scarcely  surprised  to  learn  from  you  that  Mr. 
Bentley  states  that  I  promised  Mr.  Barham  to  write 
two  separate  stories  for  the  November  and  December 
numbers  of  the  Miscellany,  because  it  is  only  one  of 
those  misstatements  to  which  that  gentleman,  in  all  the 
negotiations  I  have  had  with  him,  has  invariably  had 
recourse.  Nothing  of  the  sort  was  either  expressed 
or  implied,  and  I  cannot  believe  Mr.  Barham  made  any 
such  statement,  because  it  is  entirely  foreign  to  the  spirit 
of  the  whole  arrangement.  I  will  thank  you  however 
to  give  Mr.  Bentley  distinctly  to  understand  that  I  will 
not  write  any  such  story  or  stories,  and  that  if  he  does 
not  think  fit  to  enter  into  the  proposed  arrangement,  I 
shall  adhere  to  the  original  agreement  and  finish  Guy 
Fawkes  in  February  next.  I  beg  you  will  also  give 
him  to  understand  that  I  will  not  allow  Mr.  Leech  or 
any  other  artist  than  Mr.  Cruikshank  to  illustrate  any 
portion  of  the  work;  and  that  I  insist  upon  a  clause  to 
that  effect  being  inserted  in  the  mem.  of  agreement." 

The  remark  about  Cruikshank  is  significant  when 
read  in  connection  with  the  artist's  letter  of  three 
months  before,  and  with  his  subsequent  conduct.  For 
although  it  is  clear  that  the  trouble  about  the  publication 
of  "St.  Paul's"  had  been  healed,  through  the  efforts  of 
Mr.  Pettigrew,  he  rehashed  the  old  grievance  thirty 
years  later. 


104  AT  THE  LIBRARY  TABLE 

A  rupture  with  Bentley  was  imminent  and  it  came 
very  soon.  Ainsworth  left  the  Miscellany  in  1841,  and 
in  February,  1842,  the  first  number  of  "Ainsworth's 
Magazine"  made  its  appearance.  At  first  he  was  both 
editor  and  proprietor,  and  later  he  sold  the  magazine  to 
his  publishers — another  of  Cruikshank's  grievances;  but 
he  afterwards  bought  it  back,  and  he  continued  it  until 
1854  when  he  purchased  Bentley' s  Miscellany  and 
merged  both  magazines  into  one.  In  1845  he  had 
bought  for  £2,500  Colburn's  New  Monthly  Maga 
zine,  of  which  serial  he  had  been  an  editor  for  a  short 
time  in  1836.  In  a  few  months  he  discontinued  the  con 
solidated  magazine  and  sold  the  New  Monthly  to  his 
cousin,  Dr.  W.  F.  Ainsworth,  closing  his  editorial 
career.  For  "Ainsworth's  Magazine"  he  wrote  "The 
Miser's  Daughter",  a  work  of  considerable  power, 
which  was  long  years  afterward  dramatized  by  Andrew 
Halliday  and  produced  at  the  Adelphi  Theatre.  In 

1843  followed  "Windsor  Castle",  an  historical  romance 
with  the  scene  laid  in  the  reign  of  Henry  VIII;  and  in 

1844  his  active  pen  busied  itself  with  another  story  of 
the  same  class,  "St.  James's  or  the  Court  of  Queen 
Anne". 

During  the  period  between  1836  and  1844,  Ains 
worth  as  we  have  seen,  was  closely  associated  with 
Cruikshank,  who  was  destined  to  become  a  thorn  in  his 
side.  The  second  issue  of  "Rookwood"  was  illustrated 
by  Cruikshank,  who  furnished  also  the  designs  for 
"Jack  Sheppard,"  "The  Tower  of  London,"  "Guy 
Fawkes,"  "The  Miser's  Daughter,"  "Windsor  Castle" 
(in  part),  and  "St.  James's." 

Whatever  may  be  said  of  Cruikshank  as  an  artist, 
he  was  beyond  question  a  vain,  self-centred  and  dis 
agreeable  person.  "He  had  a  tendency,"  says  Blanchard 


WILLIAM  HARRISON  AINSWORTH   105 

Jerrold,  "to  quarrel  with  all  persons  with  whom  he  had 
business  relations,  and  when  he  did  quarrel,  his  words 
knew  no  bounds."*  He  came  to  that  stage  of  bound 
less  conceit  when  he  regarded  himself  as  the  creator  of 
all  the  works  for  which  he  supplied  the  illustrations  and 
reduced  the  writer  to  the  level  of  an  ordinary  aman 
uensis. 

All  the  world  knows  his  absurd  pretensions  to  the 
origination  of  Oliver  Twist.  He  also  asserted  his  claim 
to  everything  that  was  good  in  "Jack  Sheppard,"  "The 
Miser's  Daughter,"  and  "The  Tower  of  London."  But 
he  claimed  Egan's  Life  in  London  and  even  a  poem  of 
Laman  Blanchard's  which  he  had  illustrated  for  the 
Omnibus — as  well  as  the  pattern  of  the  hat  worn  by 
Russian  soldiers !  Blanchard  Jerrold  says  in  the  Life 
that  the  controversies  about  Dickens  and  Ainsworth 
"arose  from  Cruikshank's  habit  of  exaggeration  in  all 
things,"  which  is  a  biographer's  euphemism,  signifying 
in  plain  English  that  the  man  was  an  unmitigated  liar. 

If  any  one  is  curious  about  the  history  of  the  contro 
versies,  he  will  find  a  full,  fair  and  dispassionate  ac 
count  in  Chapters  VIII  and  IX  of  Jerrold's  book.  The 
biographer  prints  in  full  Ainsworth's  dignified  rejoinder 
to  Cruikshank's  assault,  and  justly  ridicules  the  utter 
ances  of  the  eccentric  designer.  Austin  Dobson,  a  com 
petent  and  impartial  judge,  has  recently  added  his  con 
demnation  of  Cruikshank's  arrogance.f  "He  was  not 
exempt"  says  Mr.  Dobson  "from  a  certain  'Roman  in 
firmity'  of  exaggerating  the  importance  of  his  own  per 
formances — an  infirmity  which  did  not  decrease  with 
years.  Whatever  the  amount  of  assistance  he  gave  to 


*Life  of  Cruikshank  (1882),  i,  48-49. 
tDictionary  of  National  Biography,  Cruikshank. 


io6  AT  THE  LIBRARY  TABLE 

Dickens  and  to  Ainsworth,  it  is  clear  that  it  was  not 
rated  by  them  at  the  value  he  placed  upon  it.  That  he 
did  make  suggestions,  relevant  or  irrelevant,  can  hardly 
be  doubted,  for  it  was  part  of  his  inventive  and  ever 
projecting  habit  of  mind.  It  must  also  be  conceded  that 
he  most  signally  seconded  the  text  by  his  graphic  inter 
pretations;  but  that  this  aid  or  these  suggestions  were 
of  such  a  nature  as  to  transfer  the  credit  of  the  'Miser's 
Daughter'  and  'Oliver  Twist'  from  the  authors  to  him 
self  is  more  than  can  reasonably  be  allowed." 

Mr.  Frith,  a  friend  of  Cruikshank,  says  in  his  Au 
tobiography:*  "Cruikshank  labored  under  a  strange 
delusion  regarding  the  works  of  Dickens  and  Ains 
worth.  I  heard  him  announce  to  a  large  company  as 
sembled  at  dinner  at  Glasgow  that  he  was  the  writer  of 
'Oliver  Twist.'  *  *  *  He  also  wrote  the  'Tower 
of  London,'  erroneously  credited  to  Ainsworth,  as  well 
as  other  works  commonly  understood  to  have  been  writ 
ten  by  that  author.  My  intimacy  with  Cruikshank  en 
ables  me  to  declare  that  I  do  not  believe  he  would  be 
guilty  of  the  least  deviation  from  truth,  and  to  this 
day  I  can  see  no  way  of  accounting  for  what  was  a  most 
absurd  delusion."  In  fact,  there  is  only  one  way,  if  we 
concede  truthfulness  to  the  deluded  person ;  he  was  not 
of  sound  mind. 

That  Cruikshank  was  pertinaciously  suggestive  may 
be  readily  admitted.  "He  was  excessively  troublesome 
and  obtrusive  in  his  suggestions"  says  Ainsworth.  "Mr. 
Dickens  declared  to  me  that  he  could  not  stand  it  and 
should  send  him  printed  matter  in  future."  He  adds,  in 
a  kindly  spirit  which  must  appeal  to  every  reader,  con 
sidering  the  grossness  of  the  unjustifiable  attack  upon 
him,  "It  would  be  unjust,  however,  to  deny  that  there 
was  not  (sic)  wonderful  cleverness  and  quickness  about 

"Vol.  I,  211. 


WILLIAM  HARRISON  AINSWORTH  107 

Cruikshank,  and  I  am  indebted  to  him  for  many  valu 
able  hints  and  suggestions."  Ainsworth's  appreciation  is 
further  shown  by  an  unpublished  letter  in  my  possession, 
written  on  December  23,  1838,  to  Mr.  Jones. 

"Bentley"  he  says  "will  forward  you  the  introduc 
tory  chapters  and  illustrations  of  Jack  Sheppard  with 
this  note.  As  it  is  of  the  utmost  consequence  to  me  to 
produce  a  favourable  impression  upon  the  public  by  this 
work,  I  venture  to  hope  that  you  will  lend  me  a  help 
ing  hand  at  starting.  *  *  *  Cruikshank's  illus 
trations  are,  in  my  opinion,  astonishingly  fine.  The  scene 
in  the  loft  throws  into  shade  all  his  former  efforts  in  this 
line." 

This  letter  also  reveals  what  appears  abundantly 
in  the  pages  of  my  collection, — that  Ainsworth  was  giv 
en  to  calling  on  all  his  friends  of  journalistic  and  mag 
azine  associations  to  praise  his  books.  He  was  not  at 
all  backward  in  urging  them  to  puff  the  new  works; 
and  when  Mr.  Ebers  was  the  manager  of  the  opera, 
he  artfully  threw  in  suggestions  of  "free  tickets,"  which 
was  perhaps  justifiable  but  scarcely  consistent  with  dig 
nity. 

As  an  example  of  the  way  in  which  Cruikshank  took 
pains  to  inflict  upon  his  author  the  details  of  his  designs, 
it  may  not  be  amiss  to  quote  a  letter  which  is  also  among 
my  possessions,  and  which  has  not  been  published,  to  the 
best  of  my  knowledge.  It  is  addressed  to  Ainsworth 
and  is  dated  "Saturday  evening,  5  o'clock. 

"Jonathan  Wild  has  hold  of  Jack's  left  arm  with  his 
left  hand,  and  grasps  the  collar  with  his  right.  The  Jew 
has  both  his  arms  round  Jack's  right  arm  and  Quilt 
Arnold  has  hold  of  the  right  side  of  Jack's  coat.  This 
fellow  in  making  his  spring  at  Sheppard  may  upsett  the 
gravedigger  who  nearly  falls  into  the  grave.  I  should 


io8  AT  THE  LIBRARY  TABLE 

advise  the  approach  of  the  attacking  party  to  be  thus. 
The  Jew  and  some  other  fellow  go  round  the  north  of 
the  church  and  lurk  there  and  Qt.  Arnold  in  that  road 
at  the  N.  W.  corner — Wild  himself  to  come  along  the 
south  side  so  as  to  take  Jack  in  the  rear.  Darrell  is 
about  to  draw  his  sword.  In  the  other  subject  I  have 
given  Jonathan  a  stout  walking  stick.  I  have  only 
time  to  add  that  I  am  yours  very  truly.  The  cheque  all 
safe,  many  thanks." 

Cruikshank  first  put  forth  his  claim  publicly  in  1872, 
by  means  of  a  pamphlet  called  The  Artist  and  the  Auth 
or,  just  after  the  publication  of  the  first  volume  of 
Forster's  Dickens.  It  is  likely  that  he  was  encouraged 
in  his  folly  by  the  flattery  of  foolish  friends.  Jerrold 
lays  much  blame  on  Thackeray,  from  whom  he  quotes  a 
long  passage  exalting  the  artist  far  beyond  the  author. 
"With  regard  to  the  modern  romance  of  'Jack  Shep- 
pard',"  remarks  Thackeray,  "it  seems  to  us  that  Mr. 
Cruikshank  really  created  the  tale,  and  that  Mr.  Ains- 
worth,  as  it  were,  only  put  words  to  it.  Let  any  reader 
of  the  novel  think  over  it  for  awhile,  now  that  it  is  some 
months  since  he  had  perused  and  laid  it  down — let  him 
think,  and  tell  us  what  he  remembers  of  the  tale.  George 
Cruikshank's  pictures — always  George  Cruikshank's 
pictures."  But  Thackeray  had  such  a  poor  opinion  of 
the  book  that  it  is  strange  he  should  have  ascribed  any 
merit  to  Cruikshank  for  having  "created  it".  He  called 
it  "a  book  quite  absurd  and  unreal,  and  infinitely  more 
immoral  than  anything  Fielding  even  wrote,"  if,  as  is 
generally  supposed  Thackeray  was  the  author  of  the 
article  on  Fielding  in  the  Times  of  September  2,  1840, 
reprinted  in  "Stray  Papers"  of  Thackeray,  edited  by 
Lewis  Melville  and  published  in  1901.  Thackeray 
wrote  to  his  mother:  "I  read  your  views  about  'Jack 


WILLIAM  HARRISON  AINSWORTH   109 

Sheppard',  and,  such  is  the  difference  of  taste,  thought 
it  poor  stuff  and  much  below  the  mark."*  Mr. 
Jerrold  expresses  the  opinion  that  Thackeray  was 
always  unjust  to  Ainsworth.  "He  caricatured  him 
unmercifully  in  Punch,  and  never  lost  an  oppor 
tunity  of  being  amusing  at  his  expense."  I  am  not 
inclined  to  agree  with  Mr.  Jerrold's  views.  The  long 
and  cordial  intimacy  of  the  two  men  is  evidence  against 
the  truth  of  the  theory.  I  find  no  record  of  any  resent 
ment  on  Ainsworth's  part  against  the  author  of  Vanity 
Fair,  and  Ainsworth  was  by  no  means  timid  in  self-de 
fense  or  averse  to  a  sturdy  combat  with  those  who  as 
sailed  him.  Thackeray — who  never  got  over  the  con 
viction  that  he  himself  was  an  "artist" — a  picture  mak 
er — naturally  gave  to  the  illustrator  an  undue  meed  of 
praise;  and  at  the  risk  of  denunciation  by  all  the  scrib 
blers  who  succumb  to  the  "disease  of  admiration"  and 
find  it  easy  to  glorify  a  famous  man  as  if  he  were  per 
fect  and  infallible,  I  venture  to  say  that  in  grotesque- 
ness  and  faulty  drawing,  the  great  Snob  and  the  great 
Cruikshank  were  not  very  dissimilar.  Yet  Thackeray's 

comments  were  wisdom  itself  when  compared  with  the 

< 

silly  utterance  of  Mr.  Walter  Thornbury,  who  thus  de 
livers  himself:  "Even  Dickens  had  his  fine  gold  jew 
elled  by  Cruikshank.  Ainsworth's  tawdry  rubbish — 
now  all  but  forgotten,  and  soon  to  sink  deep  in  the  mud- 
pool  of  oblivion, — was  illuminated  with  a  false  splendor 
by  the  great  humorist."t  A  critical  person  might  be 
disposed  to  inquire  why  the  "great  humorist"  should 
lower  himself  by  illuminating  anything  with  a  "false 


*See  introduction  to  Biographical  Edition  of  Thack 
eray,  IV.   19. 

f British  Artists  from  Hogarth  to  Turner,  ii,  59. 


1 10  AT  THE  LIBRARY  TABLE 

splendor."  It  is  not  complimentary  to  the  great  hu 
morist,  but  Mr.  Thornbury  unconsciously  told  the  truth ; 
his  hero  was  falseness  personified. 

In  his  "Few  Words  about  George  Cruikshank,"  Ains- 
worth  said:  "For  myself,  I  desire  to  state  emphatically 
that  not  a  single  line — not  a  word — in  any  of  my  nov 
els  was  written  by  their  illustrator,  Cruikshank.  In  no 
instance  did  he  even  see  a  proof.  The  subjects  were 
arranged  with  him  early  in  the  month,  and  about  the 
fifteenth  he  used  to  send  me  tracings  of  the  plates.  That 
was  all."  He  adds:  "Ne  sutor  ultra  crepidam.  Had 
Cruikshank  been  capable  of  constructing  a  story,  why 
did  he  not  exercise  his  talent  when  he  had  no  connec 
tion  with  Mr.  Dickens  or  myself?  But  I  never  heard 
of  such  a  tale  being  published."  Of  course,  it  may  be 
said  that  Cruikshank  did  not  pretend  that  he  had  writ 
ten  the  books — only  that  he  had  furnished  the  leading 
ideas;  that  is  an  easy  thing  to  assert,  a  hard  thing  to 
disprove,  and  an  impossible  thing  to  demonstrate. 

It  is  fairly  manifest  that  if  there  had  been  any  real 
foundation  for  the  claims  of  Cruikshank,  he  would  not 
have  waited  for  thirty  years  before  setting  up  his  title. 
He  sought  to  account  for  the  delay  by  asseverating  that 
he  had  frequently  in  private  asserted  his  claim,  which 
anybody  possessed  of  ordinary  intelligence  will  see  in  a 
moment  was  a  puerile  make-shift;  no  sufficient  reason 
or  explanation.  As  nobody  whose  opinion  is  worth  ac 
cepting  has  ever  given  credence  to  the  tale  of  the  old 
artist,  it  may  be  a  waste  of  time  to  give  it  further  at 
tention;  but  it  may  be  permitted  to  show  that  Cruik 
shank  needed  a  good  deal  of  instruction  himself. 

The  fact  is  shown  by  the  letter  of  Dickens,  produced 
in  facsimile  by  Forster,*  and  it  is  confirmed  by  several 

*Vol.  ii,  321-322. 


WILLIAM  HARRISON  AINSWORTH   in 

of  Ainsworth's  letters  now  lying  before  me.  In  March, 
1836,  while  Cruikshank  was  engaged  on  the  designs  for 
the  second  edition  of  "Rookwood,"  Ainsworth  wrote  to 
Macrone,  the  publisher,  "I  have  seen  some  of  George 
Cruikshank's  designs,  and  it  was  because  I  thought  them 
so  sketchy  that  I  write  to  you.  They  are  anything  but 
full  subjects  and  appear  to  be  chosen  as  much  as  possi 
ble  for  light  work.  He  shirked  the  inauguration  scene, 
for  instance,  because  it  was  too  crowded.  I  quite  agree 
with  you  that  a  few  good  designs  are  better  than  many 
meagre  sketches,  and  all  I  want  is  that  you  should  make 
George  understand  this.  He  has  evidently  two  styles 
— and  one  can  scarcely  recognize  in  some  of  his  'Boz- 
zes'  the  hand  of  the  designer  of  the  Comic  Almanack. 
*  *  *  Do,  I  pray  of  you,  see  George  Cruik- 
shank,and  don't  let  him  put  us  off  so  badly."  Again, 
in  writing  to  Macrone  in  1836,  he  makes  several  recom 
mendations  for  designs,  and  adds:  "Another  sugges 
tion — and  this  refers  to  George.  In  addition  to  the 
figures  I  suggested,  I  wish  him  to  introduce  as  entering 
my  old  gentleman's  chamber,  Thomas  Hill,  Esq.  (in 
propria  persona),  or  as  I  shall  call  him,  Tom  Vale.  If 
George  has  not  seen  him,  you  can  get  the  sketch  from 
Frazer's  Mag.  but  introduced  he  must  be,  as  I  mean  to 
carry  him  throughout  and  to  make  him  play  the  part 
of  Mr.  Weller  in  my  story;  I  wish  George  therefore  to 
give  the  portrait,  easily  done,  as  exact  as  possible."  In 
a  later  letter  to  Cruikshank  himself,  while  they  were  at 
work  together  on  "The  Tower,"  he  writes:  "Pray, 
when  you  are  at  the  Tower,  sketch  the  gateway  of  the 
Bloody  Tower  from  the  south ;  the  chamber  where  the 
princes  were  murdered;  the  basement  chamber  at  the 
right  of  the  gateway  of  the  Bloody  Tower,  near  the 
Round  Tower."  All  this  furnishes  competent  testimony 


ii2  AT  THE  LIBRARY  TABLE 

that  Cruikshank  was  a  mere  illustrator,  directed  and 
controlled  by  the  author. 

From  the  time  of  "Jack  Sheppard"  until  1881,  a 
period  of  over  forty  years,  Ainsworth  was  a  busy  man, 
producing  book  after  book  at  regular  intervals  and 
until  1855  closely  occupied  with  editorial  labors.  After 
"St.  James's"  he  began  "Auriol,"  which  was  by  no 
means  successful.  It  dealt  with  a  London  alchemist  of 
the  sixteenth  century,  but  the  plot  was  defective  and  it 
was  not  published  in  book  form  until  near  the  close  of 
the  author's  life.  In  1848  he  wrote  "Lancashire 
Witches"  for  the  Sunday  Times,  receiving  £1,000.  It 
was  dedicated  to  his  old  friend  James  Crossley,  Presi 
dent  of  the  Chetham  Society,  which  published  many 
volumes,  including  Potts's  Discovery  of  Witches  and 
the  Journals  of  Nicolas  Assheton,  both  furnishing  much 
of  the  material  for  the  story.  In  1854,  "Star  Cham 
ber"  and  "The  Flitch  of  Bacon,  or  the  Custom  of  Dun- 
mow"  appeared.  The  "Flitch"  treated  of  the  ancient 
Essex  custom  of  giving  a  "Gamon  of  Bacon"  to  a  mar 
ried  pair  "who  had  taken  an  oath,  pursuant  to  the  an 
cient  'Custom  of  Confession,'  if  ever — 

" — You  either  married  man  or  wife 
By  household  brawles  or  contentious  strife, 
Or  otherwise,  in  bed  or  at  board, 
Did  offend  each  other  in  deed  or  word, 
Or,  since  the  Parish  clerk  said  Amen, 
You  wish't  yourselves  unmarried  agen, 
Or  in  a  twelve  months  time  and  a  day, 
Repented  not  in  thought,  any  way; 
But  continued  true  and  just  in  desire 
As  when  you  joyn'd  hands  in  the  holy  quire." 

In  1851  "the  lord  of  the  manor  declined  to  give  the 
flitch,  but  the  claimants  obtained  one  from  a  public 


WILLIAM  HARRISON  AINSWORTH   113 

subscription,  and  a  concourse  of  some  three  thousand 
people  assembled  in  Easton  Park  in  their  honour."* 
In  1855  Ainsworth  himself  offered  to  give  the  flitch. 
The  candidates  were  Mr.  James  Barlow  and  his  wife, 
of  Chipping  Ongar,  and  the  Chevalier  de  Chatelain 
and  his  wife,  the  last  named  being  well  known  in  lit 
erary  circles.  They  were  old  friends  of  Ainsworth.  I 
have  thirteen  letters  from  Ainsworth  to  the  Chevalier 
and  his  wife,  of  the  most  intimate  character,  dating 
from  1845  to  1880.  In  one  of  them,  written  at  Brigh 
ton  on  October  22,  1854,  he  says: 

"My  dear  Chevalier:  Thanks  for  your  charming  lit 
tle  volume,  full  of  graceful  translations.  You  have  done 
me  the  favor  I  find  to  include  the  'Custom  of  Dunmow' 
in  your  collection.  Within  the  last  few  days  I  have 
received  another  version  in  French  of  the  same  ballad 
by  Jacques  Desrosiers.  The  Tale  has  been  translated 
under  the  title  of  'Un  An  et  un  Jour' ,  and  published  at 
Bruxelles.  You  will  be  glad  to  hear  that  a  worthy  per 
sonage  has  announced  his  intention  of  bequeathing  a 
sum  sufficient  for  the  perpetual  maintenance  of  the  good 
old  custom." 

On  January  5,  1855,  he  writes  to  Madame  de  Chate 
lain: 

"I  need  scarcely  say,  I  hope,  that  I  shall  be  most  hap 
py  to  entertain  your  claim  for  the  Flitch — and  though 
I  believe  a  prior  claim  has  been  made,  I  will  gladly  give 
a  second  prize  rather  than  you  should  experience  any 
disappointment."  On  July  19,  1855,  sne  received  the 
flitch  of  bacon  in  the  Windmill  Field,  Dunmore. 

In  1856  "Spendthrift"  appeared,  and  in  1857  "Mer- 
wyn  Clitheroe"  which  he  had  begun  in  1851  but  had 


*Dict.  Nat.  Biog.,  i,   198. 


ii4  AT  THE  LIBRARY  TABLE 

abandoned  after  a  few  weekly  numbers.  In  1860  he 
published  "Ovingdean  Grange,  a  Tale  of  the  South 
Downs."  The  two  books  last  mentioned  were  partly 
autobiographical. 

It  is  unnecessary  to  do  more  than  to  enumerate  his 
later  productions,  for  although  they  showed  the  scru 
pulous  care  which  he  exercised  in  respect  to  details  and 
the  pains  he  took  to  be  accurate  in  historical  references, 
they  were  never  as  popular  as  his  earlier  works.  The 
list  is  quite  imposing:  "Constable  of  the  Tower," 
1861;  "The  Lord  Mayor  of  London,"  1862;  "Car 
dinal  Pole,"  1863;  "John  Law,  the  Projector,"  1864; 
"The  Spanish  Match,  or  Charles  Stuart  in  Madrid," 
1865;  "Myddleton  Pomfret,"  1865;  "The  Constable 
de  Bourbon,"  1866;  "Old  Court,"  1867;  "The  South 
Sea  Bubble,"  1868;  "Hilary  St.  Ives,"  1869;  "Tal- 
bot  Harland,"  1870;  "Tower  Hill,"  1871;  "Bosco- 
bel,"  1872;  "The  Manchester  Rebels,  or  the  Fatal 
'45,"  1873;  "Merry  England,"  1874;  "The  Gold 
smith's  Wife,"  1874;  "Preston  Fight,  or  the  Insurrec 
tion  of  1715,"  1875;  "Chetwynd  Calverley,"  1876; 
"The  Leaguer  of  Lathom,  a  Tale  of  the  Civil  War  in 
Lancashire,"  1876;  "The  Fall  of  Somerset,"  1877; 
"Beatrice  Tyldesley,"  1878;  "Beau  Nash,"  1879; 
"Auriol  and  other  tales,"  1880;  and  "Stanley  Brere- 
ton,"  1 88 1.  Not  a  single  one  of  this  long  catalogue  is 
now  remembered.  Percy  Fitzgerald  in  an  article  in 
Belgravia  (November,  1881),  said  that  the  descrip 
tion  of  Ainsworth's  books  in  the  Catalogue  of  the  Brit 
ish  Museum  filled  no  fewer  than  forty  pages.  Mr. 
Axon  reduces  the  number  of  pages  to  twenty-three,  but 
that  is  very  extensive.  In  addition  to  the  prose  works 
whose  titles  are  given  above,  he  published  in  1855  "Bal 
lads,  Romantic,  Fantastical  and  Humorous,"  which  was 


WILLIAM  HARRISON  AINSWORTH   115 

illustrated  by  Sir  John  Gilbert  and  which  contains  some 
spirited  and  picturesque  verses;  and  in  1859  "The 
Combat  of  the  Thirty,"  a  translation  of  a  Breton  lay 
of  the  middle  ages,  which  was  included  in  the  later 
editions  of  the  "Ballads." 

In  1 88 1  Ainsworth  was  nearly  seventy-seven,  and 
approaching  the  end  of  his  career.  On  September  15 
in  that  year,  the  Mayor  of  Manchester,  Sir  Thomas 
Baker,  gave  a  banquet  in  his  honor  at  the  town  hall. 
In  proposing  the  health  of  the  guest,  the  Mayor  said 
that  in  the  Manchester  public  free  libraries  there  were 
two  hundred  and  fifty  volumes  of  his  works.  "During 
the  last  twelve  months",  said  the  Mayor,  "those  volumes 
have  been  read  seven  thousand  six  hundred  and  sixty 
times,  mostly  by  the  artisan  class  of  readers.  And  this 
means  that  twenty  volumes  of  his  works  are  being 
perused  in  Manchester  by  readers  of  the  free  libraries 
every  day  all  the  year  through." 

A  report  of  this  banquet  is  given  as  an  introduction 
to  "Stanley  Brereton",  which  was  dedicated  to  the 
Mayor.  I  have  a  copy  of  the  "official"  report,  a 
pamphlet  of  twenty-nine  pages,  whereof  forty  copies 
were  printed  "for  private  circulation  only".  The 
speeches  are  characteristic  of  English  dinners,  and  some 
of  them  are  funny  without  any  intention  on  the  part  of 
the  speakers.  The  Mayor  rather  astonishes  us  by  say 
ing  that  the  six  of  the  most  popular  works,  in  the  order 
in  which  they  were  most  read,  were  "The  Tower  of 
London",  "The  Lancashire  Witches",  "Old  St.  Paul's", 
"Windsor  Castle",  "The  Miser's  Daughter",  and  "The 
Manchester  Rebels".  But  this  was  in  Manchester. 
Ainsworth's  response  was  modest  and  graceful,  and  he 
dwelt  upon  his  delight  in  being  styled  "the  Lancashire 
novelist".  His  old  friend  Crossley  and  Edmund  Yates 


n6  AT  THE  LIBRARY  TABLE 

were  among  the  orators  of  the  occasion,  the  latter 
responding  to  the  toast  of  "The  Press",  and  saying  of 
"after-dinner  Manchester"  that  "even  in  the  midst  of 
enjoyment  he  would  hazard  the  friendly  criticism  that 
though  it  was  eloquent  it  was  not  concise."  The  account 
ends  with  these  significant  words:  "This  concluded  the 
list  of  toasts,  and  the  company  shortly  afterwards  broke 
up."  One  who  reads  the  story  of  the  feast  is  not  sur 
prised  at  this,  for  the  speeches  were  enough  to  break  up 
any  company;  but  the  tribute  to  Ainsworth  was  well- 
meant  and  sincere. 

My  English  friend,  the  prospective  biographer  of 
Ainsworth,  takes  issue  with  me  on  my  assertion  that  his 
favorite  is  an  author  who  has  fallen  into  oblivion  and 
whose  books  are  not  read  by  the  present  generation. 
He  refers  of  course  to  English  readers,  and  assures  me 
that  the  stories  are  still  popular  in  England.  "Rout- 
ledge",  he  says,  "issues  a  vast  number  of  cheap  editions 
of  his  works,  and  in  addition  many  other  publishing 
firms  have  recently  issued  editions  of  the  better  known 
novels.  This  has  been  done  by  Methuen,  Newnes,  Gib- 
bings,  Mudie,  Treherne,  and  Grant  Richards,  to  men 
tion  a  few  that  I  recollect  at  the  minute."  It  is  doubt 
less  true  that  there  is  a  demand  for  the  tales  among  the 
less  cultivated  English  readers,  but  it  can  not,  I  think, 
be  maintained  successfully  that  the  author  has  a  perma 
nent  and  enduring  literary  fame.  Perhaps  I  am  influ 
enced  in  my  opinion  by  the  American  lack  of  acquaint 
ance  with  Ainsworth  and  his  works. 

Contemporaneous  memoirs  and  records  are  full  of 
testimony  to  the  personal  popularity  of  Ainsworth  in 
the  social  life  of  the  day.  He  entertained  freely,  and 
was  a  favorite  guest.  Dickens  and  Thackeray  were 
both  fond  of  him,  although  Blanchard  Jerrold,  as  we 


WILLIAM  HARRISON  AINSWORTH   117 

have  seen,  doubted  Thackeray's  friendship.  Forster 
says  in  his  Dickens,  referring  to  the  period  circa  1838, 
"A  friend  now  especially  welcome,  too,  was  the  novelist, 
Mr.  Ainsworth,  who  shared  with  us  incessantly  for  the 
three  following  years  in  the  companionship  which  began 
at  his  house ;  with  whom  we  visited,  during  two  of  these 
years,  friends  of  arts  and  letters  in  his  native  Manches 
ter,  from  among  whom  Dickens  brought  away  his 
Brothers  Cheeryble,  and  to  whose  sympathy  in  tastes 
and  pursuits,  accomplishments  in  literature,  open- 
hearted,  generous  ways,  and  cordial  hospitality,  many 
of  the  pleasures  of  later  years  are  due."  I  have  a  little 
note  of  his,  addressed  to  Dickens,  saying:  "Don't  forget 
your  engagement  to  dine  with  me  on  Tuesday  next.  I 
shall  send  a  refresher  to  Forster  the  unpunctual." 
There  is  also  this  letter  from  Dickens — strangely 
enough  in  black  ink  and  not  the  blue  which  he  employed 
in  later  days. 

"Devonshire  Terrace, 

Fifth  February,  1841. 
MY  DEAR  AINSWORTH — 

Will  you  tell  me  where  that  Punch  is  to  be  bought, 
what  one  is  to  ask  for,  and  what  the  cost  is.  It  has 
made  me  very  uneasy  in  my  mind. 

Mind — I  deny  the  beer.  It  is  very  excellent;  but  that 
it  surpasses  that  meeker,  and  gentler,  and  brighter  ale 
of  mine  (oh  how  bright  it  is  !)  I  never  will  admit.  My 
gauntlet  lies  upon  the  earth. 

Yours,  in  defiance, 

CHARLES  DICKENS." 

One  of  my  Thackeray  letters  is  addressed  to  Ains 
worth,  dated  in  1844,  inviting  him  to  dine  at  the  Gar- 
rick,  with  the  characteristic  remark,  "I  want  to  ask  3 
or  4  of  the  littery  purfession."  Tom  Moore  in  his 


n8  AT  THE  LIBRARY  TABLE 

Journal  (November  21,  1838)  mentions  a  dinner  at 
Bentley's  where  the  company  was  "all  the  very  haut  ton 
of  the  literature  of  the  day,"  including  himself  (named 
first),  Jerdan,  Ainsworth,  Lever,  Dickens,  Campbell, 
and  Luttrell.  We  read  in  Mackay's  "Breakfasts  with 
Rogers"  of  a  breakfast  where  he  met  Sydney  Smith, 
Daniel  O'Connell,  Sir  Augustus  D'Este  and  Ainsworth. 
These  references  might  be  multiplied  almost  indefinitely. 
According  to  Hazlitt,  Ainsworth  had  one  rule,  as  a 
host,  which  in  these  days  of  studied  unpunctuality  might 
be  considered  unduly  vigorous;  when  he  had  friends  to 
dinner  he  locked  his  outside  gate  at  the  stroke  of  the 
clock,  and  no  late  comer  was  admitted. 

It  is  not  to  be  denied  that  he  had  his  foibles  and 
that  he  also  had  his  quarrels — few  men  of  any  force  or 
strength  of  will  and  character  can  escape  quarrels.  That 
he  fell  out  with  Cruikshank  and  Bentley  is  not  to  be 
wondered  at,  for  almost  everybody  did  that,  sooner  or 
later.  His  passage  at  arms  with  Francis  Mahony — 
the  Father  Prout  of  "Bells  of  Shandon"  fame — is  more 
to  be  regretted,  but  he  was  in  no  way  to  blame.  He 
behaved  very  well  under  trying  conditions.  The  trouble 
dated  from  Ainsworth's  secession  from  Bentley's  Mis 
cellany — what  Mr.  Bates  calls  his  "dis-Bentleyfication," 
and,  ignoring  their  past  intimacy  and  cordial  compan 
ionship,  Mahony  sneered  at  the  man  "who  left  the  tale 
of  Crichton  half  told,  and  had  taken  up  with  'Blue- 
skin,'  'Jack  Sheppard,'  'Flitches  of  Bacon,'  and  'Lanca 
shire  Witches,'  and  thought  such  things  were  'litera 
ture,'  " — following  it  up  with  some  rather  poor  and 
clumsy  verse-libels,  flat,  stale  and  unprofitable — utterly 
unworthy  of  a  moment's  time.  Ainsworth  replied  most 
courteously  in  a  parody  of  Prout,  called  "The  Magpie 
of  Marwood;  an  humble  Ballade,"  which  none  could 


WILLIAM  HARRISON  AINSWORTH   119 

condemn  as  either  coarse  or  brutal.  When  Mahony 
came  back  at  his  former  friend  with  quotations  from  pri 
vate  letters  asking  eulogistic  notices  and  literary  aid, 
and  when  he  said  "Has  he  forgotten  that  he  was  fed 
at  the  table  of  Lady  Blessington?  not  merely  for  the 
sake  of  companionship,  for  a  duller  dog  never  sat  at  a 
convivial  board,"  he  showed  himself  a  despicable  cad,  a 
perfidious  creature,  well  deserving  the  name  of  "Jesuit 
scribe,"  which  was  about  all  the  retort  which  Ains- 
worth  thought  fit  to  make. 

The  kindly  and  forgiving  nature  of  Ainsworth  is 
shown  by  a  letter  in  my  collection,  written  on  February 
24,  1880,  to  Charles  Kent.  He  says:  "I  always  regret 
the  misunderstanding  that  occurred  between  myself  and 
Mahony,  but  any  offence  that  was  given  him  on  my  part 
was  unintentional,  and  I  cannot  help  thinking  he  was 
incited  to  the  attack  he  made  upon  me  by  Bentley.  Be 
this  as  it  may,  I  have  long  ceased  to  think  about  it,  and 
now  only  dwell  upon  the  agreeable  parts  of  his  char 
acter.  He  was  an  admirable  scholar,  a  wit,  a  charming 
poet,  and  generally — not  always — a  very  genial  com 
panion."  These  pleasant  remarks  about  the  man  who 
had  grossly  insulted  him,  are  quite  characteristic  and 
demonstrate  the  sweet  reasonableness  with  which  he 
treated  men  like  Cruikshank  and  Father  Prout. 

As  Blanchard  Jerrold  says,  Punch  was  often  quite 
severe  on  Ainsworth.  Spielmann  in  his  History  of  Punch 
confirms  the  statement: 

"Harrison  Ainsworth,  as  much  for  his  good-looks  and 
his  literary  vanity,  as  for  his  tendency  to  reprint  his 
romances  in  such  journals  as  came  under  his  editorship, 
was  the  object  of  constant  banter.  An  epigram  put  the 
case  very  neatly: 


iio  AT  THE  LIBRARY  TABLE 

"Says  Ainsworth  to  Colburn, 

'A  plan  in  my  pate  is, 
To  give  my  romance  as 

A  supplement,  gratis.' 
Says  Colburn  to  Ainsworth, 

'Twill  do  very  nicely, 
For  that  will  be  charging 

It's  value  precisely.' 

"Harrison  Ainsworth  could  not  have  his  portrait 
painted,  nor  write  a  novel  of  crime  and  sensation,  with 
out  being  regarded  as  a  convenient  peg  for  pleasantry." 

There  seems  to  have  been,  unluckily,  a  shadow  of  a 
difference  with  William  Jerdan,  of  the  Literary  Ga 
zette,  whose  diffuse  and  often  tedious  Autobiography 
was  published  in  1853.  "Among  incipient  authors,"  says 
Jerdan,  "whom  (to  use  a  common  phrase)  it  was  in  my 
power  to  'take  by  the  hand'  and  pull  up  the  steep,  few 
had  heartier  help  than  Mr.  William  Harrison  Ains 
worth,  whose  literary  propensities  were  strong  in  youth, 
and  who  has  since  made  so  wide  a  noise  in  the  world  of 
fictitious  and  periodical  literature.  From  some  cause  or 
another,  which  I  cannot  comprehend,  he  has  given  a  no 
tice  to  my  publishers,  to  forbid  the  use  of  any  of  his  cor 
respondence  in  these  Memoirs,  though  on  looking  over 
a  number  of  his  letters  I  can  discover  nothing  discredit 
able  to  him,  or  aught  of  which  he  has  reason  to  be 
ashamed."  I  think  it  is  not  difficult  to  understand  what 
Jerdan  seemed  unable  to  comprehend.  Ainsworth  did 
not  care  to  have  his  confidential  requests  for  good  no 
tices  go  out  to  the  public.  It  was  a  weakness  of  his  to 
beg  for  complimentary  reviews  and  Father  Prout  had 
made  the  most  of  it;  small  wonder  that  he  dreaded  a 
repetition  of  the  experience.  Jerdan  gives,  however,  a 
very  kindly  estimate  of  Ainsworth.* 

*  Autobiography,  iv,  390-393. 


WILLIAM  HARRISON  AINSWORTH   121 

In  Mr.  Axon's  memoir,  he  says  that  an  engraving  by 
W.  C.  Edwards  of  a  portrait  of  Ainsworth  by  Maclise 
appeared  on  the  frontispiece  of  Laman  Blanchard's  bio 
graphical  sketch  in  the  first  number  of  "Ainsworth's 
Magazine".  A  second  portrait  by  the  same  artist, 
which  was  exhibited  at  the  Royal  Academy  in  1844, 
was  the  frontispiece  of  the  fifth  volume  of  the  magazine. 
A  portrait  by  Count  D'Orsay  dated  November  21, 
1844,  appeared  in  the  seventh  volume.  To  this  period 
belong  the  full-length  portrait  by  the  elder  Pick- 
ersgill,  the  property  of  Chetham's  Hospital,  but 
now  in  the  Manchester  Reference  Library,  and 
a  portrait  by  R.  J.  Lane.  The  good  looks  of  Ains 
worth  have  been  referred  to  several  times;  they  were 
the  good  looks  of  the  days  of  William  IV,  but  the  Ma 
clise  and  Pickersgill  portraits  as  well  as  the  later  Fry 
photograph  have  a  dandified  appearance  which  in  our 
modern  eyes  detracts  from  true  dignity.  The  sketch 
in  the  Maclise  Gallery  shows  him  at  his  best,  in  his  Fra- 
ser  days,  a  fine  and  gallant  figure,  without  the  hideous 
whiskers  of  the  type  beloved  by  Tittlebat  Titmouse. 
"This  delicately  drawn  portrait  of  the  novelist"  com 
ments  Mr.  Bates,  "just  at  the  time  that  he  had  achieved 
his  reputation — hair  curled  and  oiled  as  that  of  an  As 
syrian  bull,  the  gothic  arch  coat-collar,  the  high  neck 
cloth,  and  the  tightly  strapped  trousers — exhibits  as  fine 
an  example  as  we  could  wish  for,  of  the  dandy  of  the 
D'Orsay  type  and  pre-Victorian  epoch." 

He  lived  at  one  time  at  the  "Elms"  at  Kilburn,  and 
later  at  Kensal  Manor  House  on  the  Harrow  Road. 
Afterwards  he  lived  at  Brighton  and  at  Tunbridge 
Wells.  When  he  grew  old  he  resided  with  his  oldest 
daughter,  Fannie,  at  Hurstpierpoint.  He  had  also  a 
residence  at  St.  Mary's  Road,  Reigate,  Surrey,  and  there 


122  AT  THE  LIBRARY  TABLE 

he  died,  on  Sunday,  January  3d,  1882.  On  January 
9th,  he  was  buried  in  Kensal  Green  Cemetery,  with  a 
quiet  and  simple  ceremonial  as  he  wished.  His  widow 
and  three  daughters  by  his  first  marriage  survived  him. 

Ainsworth  had  no  power  to  portray  character  or  to 
analyze  motives ;  his  genius  was  purely  descriptive.  He 
had  a  strong  literary  bent,  and  he  was  a  man  of  letters 
in  the  true  sense.  He  did  not  possess  the  spark  which 
gives  immortality,  but  he  toiled  faithfully  and  his  work 
was  well  done  even  if  he  did  not  reach  the  standard  of 
the  greatest  of  his  contemporaies. 

Perhaps  his  merits  were  characterized  rather  too  or 
nately  in  the  Sun  of  August  2,  1852,  where  a  reviewer 
said: 

"His  romances  yield  evidence,  in  a  thousand  particu 
lars,  that  his  temperament  is  exquisitely  sensitive,  not 
less  of  the  horrible  than  of  the  beautiful.  We  have  it 
in  those  landscapes  variously  coloured  with  the  glow 
of  Claude  and  the  gloom  of  Salvator  Rosa — in  those 
lyrics  grave  as  the  songs  of  the  Tyrol,  or  ghastly  as  the 
incantations  of  the  Brocken;  but  still  more  in  those 
creations,  peopling  the  one  and  chaunting  the  other, 
namely,  some  of  them  as  the  models  of  Ostade,  and  oth 
ers  wild  as  the  wildest  dreams  of  Fuseli.  Everywhere, 
however,  in  these  romances  a  preference  for  the  grim- 
lier  moods  of  imagination  renders  itself  apparent.  The 
author's  purpose,  so  to  speak,  gravitates  towards  the 
preternatural.  Had  he  been  a  painter  instead  of  a  ro- 
mancist,  he  could  have  portrayed  the  agonies  of  Ugo- 
lino,  as  Da  Vinci  portrayed  the  'rotello  del  fico,'  in  lines 
the  most  haggard  and  lines  the  most  cadaverous.  As  a 
writer  of  fiction,  his  place  among  his  contemporaries 
may,  we  conceive,  be  very  readily  indicated.  He  occu- 


WILLIAM  HARRISON  AINSWORTH   123 

pies  the  same  position  in  the  present  that  Radcliffe  oc 
cupied  in  a  former  generation." 

Mr.  Axon's  estimate  is  less  gorgeous  but  more  con 
vincing.  "The  essence  of  his  power  was  that  same 
faculty  by  which  the  Eastern  story-teller  holds  spell 
bound  a  crowd  of  hearers  in  the  street  of  Cairo.  It  is 
this  fascination  which  enables  Ainsworth,  at  his  best, 
to  compel  the  reader's  attention,  and  hurries  him  for 
ward  from  the  first  page  to  the  last  of  some  tale  of 
'daring-do',  of  crime,  adventure,  sorrow  and  love. 
The  reader  who  has  listened  to  the  beginning  does  not 
willingly  turn  aside  until  the  story  is  completed  and  he 
has  seen  all  the  puppets  play  their  part  with  that  skilful 
semblance  of  truth  that  seems  more  real  than  reality 
itself." 

It  is  to  be  hoped  that  the  forthcoming  biography  will 
do  ample  justice  to  the  memory  of  this  charming  literary 
personage,  and  may  revive  the  fading  interest  in  him 
and  in  his  works. 


GEORGE  PAYNE   RAINSFORD  JAMES 

IN  a  vainglorious  mood  I  said  not  long  ago  to  a 
well-dressed  and  apparently  intelligent  gentle 
man  whom  I  met  in  the  house  of  an  accom 
plished  lawyer  in  Washington  City,  that  I  had 
just  had  the  privilege  of  conversing  with  the 
extremely  modern  novelist,   Mr.   Henry  James.      He 
smiled   amiably   and   remarked   airily,    "Oh,    the   two 
horsemen  fellow". 

The  remark  was  not  without  significance,  because  it 
betrayed  the  fact  that  my  casual  acquaintance,  who 
might  well  be  presumed  to  represent  what  is  called  "the 
average  citizen"  of  this  enlightened  country;  who  was 
fairly  well  educated;  who  had  read  enough  to  know  of 
the  famous  horsemen  and  of  their  habitual  appearance 
in  the  opening  chapter;  who  assuredly  had  skimmed 
the  book-notices  in  our  wonderful  newspapers;  was, 
after  all,  more  distinctly  impressed  by  the  writer  of 
sixty  years  ago  than  by  the  contemporaneous  author 
whose  volumes  bid  fair  to  rival  in  number  those  of  his 
namesake — an  author  whose  style  defies  definition  and 
bewilders  the  simple-minded  searcher  after  a  good 
story. 

I  confess  that  I  am  puzzled  by  these  subtle  writers 
with  their  involved  sentences,  their  clouds  of  verbiage, 
and  their  incomprehensible  wanderings  in  speculative 
mysteries.  There  is  a  delight  about  the  direct  and  there 
is  often  disappointment  about  the  indirect.  The  true 
lover  of  fiction  revels  in  the  directness  of  Dumas  and  of 

125 


126  AT  THE  LIBRARY  TABLE 

Dickens,  but  he  usually  accepts  the  intricacies  of  the 
modern  school  because  he  is  told  that  he  ought  to  do  so 
or  because,  alone  and  unaided,  he  can  discover  nothing 
better  in  the  product  of  the  day. 

To  my  Washington  friend  I  replied,  with  that  offen 
sive  assumption  of  superiority  which  marks  the  man 
familiar  with  his  encyclopaedia,  that  the  writer  of  whom 
he  was  thinking  had  closed  his  career  and  finished  the 
last  chapter  of  his  life  nearly  half  a  century  ago,  when 
Henry  James  was  only  seventeen  and  had  not  yet 
dreamed  of  Daisy  Miller  or  forecasted  the  genesis  of 
the  two  closely  printed  volumes  of  The  Golden  Bowl. 
I  discerned  the  truth,  however,  that  the  subject  was  not 
interesting  and  we  changed  the  topic  of  conversation. 

The  earlier  James  has  not  been  favored  by  the  men 
who  compile  histories  of  English  literature.  Nicoll  and 
Seccombe  merely  call  him  "the  prolific  James",  but 
devote  large  space  to  many  inferior  writers.  Garnett 
and  Gosse  ignore  him  entirely.  It  seems  to  be  a  rule 
among  self-constituted  critics  to  speak  of  him  with  indif 
ference;  I  think  he  deserves  more  respectful  treatment. 
It  may  be  that  he  has  been  a  victim  of  that  merciless 
propensity  of  men  to  throw  stones  at  him  who  has  been 
the  subject  of  ridicule  by  those  who  have  won  popular 
ity;  when  one  cur  barks,  the  whole  pack  joins  vigor 
ously.  As  Mr.  Stapleton  in  Jacob  Faithful  profoundly 
observes,  it  is  "human  natur".  When  Macaulay  damned 
poor  Montgomery  to  lasting  ignominy,  he  deliberately 
consigned  the  luckless  poet  to  undeserved  contempt;  and 
Macaulay's  essay  will  live  while  but  for  its  caustic  con 
demnation  Montgomery  would  be  utterly  forgotten. 

The  "horseman"  tag  has  for  many  years  attached 
itself  to  G.  P.  R.  James  and  has  done  much  to  bring 
him  into  ridicule.  It  is  strange  how  such  tags  preserve 


GEORGE  P.  R.  JAMES  127 

immortality,  despite  the  fact  that  they  are  often  unjust 
and  deceiving.  What  is  printed,  remains.  A  New 
York  journal  said  recently:  "An  error  once  made  in 
print,  it  seems  will  never  die;  a  mis-statement  may  be 
corrected  within  the  hour,  but  it  goes  on  its  travels  with 
out  the  correction  and  becomes  a  bewildering  part  of 
written  history".  It  is  true  also  concerning  a  "tag". 
In  literature,  Bret  Harte's  paradies,  the  Rejected 
Addresses,  and  the  many  clever  things  contained  in  Mr. 
Hamilton's  amusing  compilation,  show  how  easy  it  is  to 
discover  a  mannerism  and  to  attach  to  an  author  a  label 
which  will  always  identify  him. 

Possibly  the  popularity  of  the  "horseman"  remark  is 
due  in  some  degree  to  Thackeray,  who  began  "that 
fatal  parody,"  the  burlesque  "Barbazure,  by  G.  P.  R. 
Jeames  Esq.  etc."  in  this  wise:  "It  was  upon  one  of 
those  balmy  evenings  of  November  which  are  only 
known  in  the  valleys  of  Languedoc  and  among  the 
mountains  of  Alsace,  that  two  cavaliers  might  have  been 
perceived  by  the  naked  eye  threading  one  of  the  rocky 
and  romantic  gorges  that  skirt  the  mountain  land  be 
tween  the  Marne  and  the  Garonne."  Our  own  John 
Phoenix  in  his  review  of  the  "Life  of  Joseph  Bowers  the 
Elder" — I  quote  from  the  original  edition,  and  not  from 
the  one  printed  by  the  Caxton  Club  which  omits  this 
gem — says  of  one  of  Mr.  Bowers's  supposititious 
works:  "The  following  smacks,  to  us,  slightly  ot 
'Jeems.'  'It  was  on  a  lovely  morning  in  the  sweet  spring 
time,  when  two  horsemen  might  have  been  seen  slowly 
descending  one  of  the  gentle  acclivities  that  environ  the 
picturesque  valley  of  San  Diego.'  "  Mr.  Edmund  Gosse 
continues  the  tradition  when  in  his  Modern  English  Lit 
erature,  he  tells  us  of  the  days  when  "the  cavaliers  of  G. 
P.  R.  James  were  riding  down  innumerable  roads"; 


128  AT  THE  LIBRARY  TABLE 

while  Justin  McCarthy  in  the  History  of  Our  Own 
Times  remarks  pleasantly — "Many  of  us  can  remem 
ber,  without  being  too  much  ashamed  of  the  fact,  that 
there  were  early  days  when  Mr.  James  and  his  cavaliers 
and  his  chivalric  adventures  gave  nearly  as  much  delight 
as  Walter  Scott  could  have  given  to  the  youth  of  a  pre 
ceding  generation.  But  Walter  Scott  is  with  us  still, 
young  and  old,  and  poor  James  is  gone.  His  once 
famous  solitary  horseman  has  ridden  away  into  actual 
solitude,  and  the  shades  of  night  have  gathered  over 
his  heroic  form".  Here  we  perceive  a  variation  from 
the  familiar  allusion.  The  "two  horsemen"  have  con 
densed  themselves  into  a  single  rider. 

While  we  are  speaking  of  the  horsemen,  it  may  not 
be  amiss  to  recall  what  James  thought  of  them.  In 
1851  he  published  a  story  called  "The  Fate,"  and  in  the 
sixteenth  chapter  he  deals  with  them  in  a  manner  quite 
amusing  but  also  quite  pathetic.  He  is  talking  about 
plagiarism  and  he  wanders  into  other  fields.  He  says: 

"As  to  repeating  one's  self,  it  is  no  very  great  crime, 
perhaps,  for  I  never  heard  that  robbing  Peter  to  pay 
Paul  was  punishable  under  any  law  or  statute,  and  the 
multitude  of  offenders  in  this  sense,  in  all  ages,  and  in 
all  circumstances,  if  not  an  excuse,  is  a  palliation,  show 
ing  the  frailty  of  human  nature,  and  that  we  are  as  frail 
as  others — but  no  more.  The  cause  of  this  self-repeti 
tion,  probably,  is  not  a  paucity  of  ideas,  not  an  infer 
tility  of  fancy,  not  a  want  of  imagination  or  invention, 
but  like  children  sent  daily  to  draw  water  from  a  stream, 
we  get  into  the  habit  of  dropping  our  buckets  into  the 
same  immeasurable  depth  of  thought  exactly  at  the 
same  place ;  and  though  it  be  not  exactly  the  same  water 
as  that  which  we  drew  up  the  day  before  it  is  very  sim 
ilar  in  quality  and  flavor,  a  little  clearer  or  a  little  more 
turbid,  as  the  case  may  be. 

"Now  this  dissertation — which  may  be  considered  as 


GEORGE  P.  R.  JAMES  129 

an  introduction  or  preface  to  the  second  division  of  my 
history — has  been  brought  about,  has  had  its  rise,  orir 
gin,  source,  in  an  anxious  and  careful  endeavor  to 
avoid,  if  possible,  introducing  into  this  work  the  two 
solitary  horsemen — one  upon  a  white  horse — which, 
by  one  mode  or  another,  have  found  their  way  into  prob 
ably  one  out  of  three  of  all  the  books  I  have  writ 
ten  and  I  need  hardly  tell  the  reader  that  the  name 
of  these  books  is  legion.  They  are,  perhaps,  too  many; 
but,  though  I  must  die,  some  of  them  will  live — I  know 
it,  I  feel  it;  and  I  must  continue  to  write  while  this  spir 
it  is  in  this  body. 

To  say  truth,  I  do  not  know  why  I  should  wish  to 
get  rid  of  my  two  horsemen,  especially  the  one  on  the 
white  horse.  Wouvermans  always  had  a  white  horse 
in  all  his  pictures;  and  I  do  not  see  why  I  should  not 
put  my  signature,  my  emblem,  my  monogram,  in  my  pa 
per  and  ink  pictures  as  well  as  any  painter  of  them  all. 
I  am  not  sure  that  other  authors  do  not  do  the  same 
thing — that  Lytton  has  not  always,  or  very  nearly,  a 
philosophizing  libertine — Dickens,  a  very  charming 
young  girl,  with  dear  little  pockets;  and  Lever  a  bold 
dragoon.  Nevertheless,  upon  my  life,  if  I  can  help  it, 
we  will  not  have  in  this  work  the  two  horsemen  and 
the  white  horse;  albeit,  in  after  times — when  my  name 
is  placed  with  Homer  and  Shakespeare,  or  in  any  other 
more  likely  position — they  may  arise  serious  and  acrim 
onious  disputes  as  to  the  real  authorship  of  the  book, 
from  its  wanting  my  own  peculiar  and  distinctive  mark 
and  characteristic. 

But  here,  while  writing  about  plagiarism,  I  have  been 
myself  a  plagiary;  and  it  shall  not  remain  without  ac 
knowledgment,  having  suffered  somewhat  in  that  sort 
myself.  Here,  my  excellent  friend,  Leigh  Hunt,  soul 
of  mild  goodness,  honest  truth,  and  gentle  brightness! 
I  acknowledge  that  I  stole  from  you  the  defensive  image 
of  Wouverman's  white  horse,  which  you  incautiously 
put  within  my  reach,  on  one  bright  night  of  long,  dreamy 
conversation,  when  our  ideas  of  many  things,  wide  as 
the  poles  asunder,  met  suddenly  without  clashing,  or 


130  AT  THE  LIBRARY  TABLE 

produced  but  a  cool,  quiet  spark — as  the  white  stones 
which  children  rub  together  in  dark  corners  emit  a  soft 
phosphorescent  gleam,  that  serves  but  to  light  their  lit 
tle  noses."* 

I  hold  no  brief  for  James.  I  cannot  assert  truthfully 
that  I  am  particularly  well  acquainted  with  more  than 
four  or  five  of  his  numerous  books,  although  I  remem 
ber  with  delight  the  perusal  of  some  of  them  when  I 
was  a  boy,  reading  for  the  story  alone.  But  I  am  confi 
dent  that  he  had  his  merits,  and  that  much  of  the  abuse 
showered  upon  him  by  critics  has  been  undeserved ;  that 
he  was  a  careful  and  conscientious  writer  whose  novels 
are  fit  to  be  read,  and  that  while  he  may  no  longer  be 
ranked  among  "the  best  sellers",  he  deserves  a  high 
place  of  honor  among  those  who  have  entertained, 
amused  and  instructed  their  fellow  men.  It  is  only 
about  two  years  ago  that  the  Routledges  of  London 
considered  it  wise  to  begin  the  new  career  of  their  house 
by  re-issuing  in  twenty-five  volumes  the  historical  novels, 
and  cheaper  reproductions  are  widely  circulated.  In  a 
recent  number  of  a  New  York  magazine  the  editor  says 
that  "the  fact  is  that  James  has  always  had  a  big  public 
of  his  own — the  public  in  fact  that  does  not  consult  the 
'Dictionary  of  National  Biography'  " — referring  to  the 
disparaging  article  in  the  Dictionary  about  which  I  will 
have  something  to  say  later  on.  There  are  authors  who 
are  always  praised  by  the  critics  but  ignored  by  the 


*As  a  matter  of  curiosity,  I  examined  the  twenty-one 
novels  composing  the  "Revised  Edition"  of  1844-1849 
to  ascertain  just  how  many  introduced  the  horseman  or 
horsemen  in  the  first  chapter.  Seven  disclose  them;  in 
eight  they  are  absent;  in  four,  the  horsemen  are  "a 
party";  in  two,  they  appear  in  the  second  chapter,  the 
first  being  merely  introductory. 


GEORGE  P.  R.  JAMES  131 

proletariat  of  readers;  there  are  authors  whom  the 
critics  affect  to  despise  but  who  have  many  readers 
whose  judgments  are  not  embalmed  in  print.  James 
seems  to  belong  to  the  last-mentioned  class.  Yet  few 
are  acquainted  with  the  man  himself,  and  I  have  thought 
that  it  might  not  be  amiss  to  give  a  short  account  of 
him,  referring  to  the  estimates  of  his  character  and  abil 
ity  by  those  of  his  own  time  and  also  to  some  autograph 
letters  of  his  which  are  in  my  possession  and  which  have 
not  been  published. 

The  details  of  his  life  are  not  very  well  known;  it 
was  not  a  stirring  or  an  eventful  one.  It  was  the  life  of 
a  quiet,  dignified  and  unostentatious  man  of  letters, 
unmarked  by  fierce  controversies  and  wholly  devoid  of 
domestic  troubles.  If  his  reputation  has  not  long  sur 
vived  him  among  the  critical  it  is  because  of  a  law  of 
literature  which  Mr.  Brander  Matthews  says  is  inex 
orable  and  universal.  The  man  who  has  the  gift  of 
story  telling  and  nothing  else,  who  is  devoid  of  humor, 
who  does  not  possess  the  power  of  making  character, 
who  is  a  "spinner  of  yarns"  only,  has  no  staying  power, 
and  "however  immense  his  immediate  popularity  may 
be,  he  sinks  into  oblivion  almost  as  soon  as  he  ceases  to 
produce".*  James  seems  to  have  had  only  in  a  small 
degree  "the  power  of  making  character",  and  although 
he  had  a  sense  of  humor,  it  manifests  itself  in  his  novels 
only  in  a  mildly  unobtrusive  way. 

George  Payne  Rainsford  James  was  born  in  George 
Street,  Hanover  Square,  London,  on  August  9th,  1799. 
His  father  was  a  physician  who  had  seen  service  in  the 
navy  and  was  in  America  during  the  Revolution,  serving 
in  Benedict  Arnold's  descent  on  Connecticut.  The  son 


!Brander  Matthews:  Aspects  of  Fiction,  153. 


i32  AT  THE  LIBRARY  TABLE 

of  the  novelist,  who  is  still  living  in  Wisconsin,  tells 
me  that  his  grandfather  (as  he  hinted)  shot  a  man 
with  his  own  hands  to  stop  the  atrocities  of  the  siege 
in  which  Ledyard  fell.  The  physician  was  also  in  the 
vessel  which  brought  Rodney  the  news  of  De  Grasse 
and  enabled  him  to  win  the  great  naval  victory  which 
assisted  England  to  make  peace  creditably.  His  paternal 
grandfather  was  Dr.  Robert  James,  whose  "powders" 
for  curing  fevers  enjoyed  great  celebrity  at  one  time,* 
but  his  chief  title  to  fame  is  that  he  was  admired  by 
Samuel  Johnson  who  said  of  him,  "no  man  brings  more 
mind  to  his  profession."!  I  regret  that  there  is  a  cruel 
insinuation  by  the  great  personage  which  implies  that 
Doctor  Robert  was  not  sober  for  twenty  years,  but  there 
is  some  doubt  whether  Johnson  was  really  referring  to 
James. §  Those  were  days  of  free  indulgence,  and  much 
may  be  pardoned;  at  all  events,  no  one  could  ever 
accuse  the  grandson  of  such  an  offence. 

Young  George  attended  the  school  of  the  Reverend 
William  Carmalt  at  Putney,  but  he  was  not  fortunate 
enough  to  have  the  advantage  of  a  university  educa 
tion,  which  despite  the  sneers  of  those  who  never 
attended  a  university,  is  an  important  element  in  the 
life  of  any  man  who  devotes  himself  to  literature.  It 
is  a  great  corrective,  and  those  who  regard  the  subject 
from  a  point  of  view  wholly  utilitarian  do  not  compre 
hend  in  the  least  degree  what  is  meant  by  it.  James 
soon  developed  a  fondness  for  the  study  of  languages, 
not  only  what  are  called  "the  classics,"  but  of  Persian 

*They  are  said  to  have  caused  the  death  of  Oliver 
Goldsmith,  and  pamphlets  were  published  on  the  sub 
ject.  Foster's  Oliver  Goldsmith,  II.  461-463. 

tBoswell  (Geo.  Birkbeck  Hill's  Edition),  I.  183. 

§/<*.,  III.  442. 


GEORGE  P.  R.  JAMES  133 

and  Arabic  although  he  says  he  "sadly  failed  in  master 
ing  Arabic."  This  taste  of  his  may  account  in  part  for 
his  extensive  vocabulary,  and  it  may  be  that  his  diffuse- 
ness,  so  much  criticised,  was  due  in  some  degree  to  his 
ready  command  of  an  unusual  number  of  words.  In 
his  younger  days,  he  studied  medicine,  as  might  have 
been  expected,  but  his  inclination  was  in  a  different 
direction.  He  wanted  to  go  into  the  navy,  but  says 
Mr.  C.  L.  James,  "his  father,  who  had  a  sailor's  experi 
ence  and  manners,  said,  'you  may  go  into  the  army  if 
you  like — it's  the  life  of  a  dog;  but  the  navy  is  the  life 

of  a  d- d  dog,  and  you  shant  try  it." 

He  did  accordingly  go  into  the  army  for  a  short  time 
during  the  "One  Hundred  Days,"  and  was  wounded  in 
one  of  the  slight  actions  which  followed  Waterloo;  but 
he  never  rose  beyond  the  rank  of  lieutenant.  His  son 
writes:  "The  British  and  Prussian  forces  were  disposed 
all  along  the  frontier  to  guard  every  point,  and  Well 
ington,  with  whom  my  father  was  acquainted,  did  not 
like  the  arrangement — it  was  Blucher's.  When  Napol 
eon  crossed  the  Sambre  at  Charlevoi,  the  Duke  saw  his 
purpose  of  taking  Quatre  Bras,  between  the  English 
and  Prussians,  so  he  sent  word  to  all  his  own  detach 
ments  to  fall  in,  'running  as  to  a  fire.'  *  *  *  My 
father's  company  was  among  those  too  late  for  the  great 
battle.  I  have  heard  him  tell  how  the  cuirassiers  lay 
piled  up,  men  and  horses,  to  the  tops  of  lofty  hedges. 
*  *  *  My  father  also  said  that  he  saw  a  dead 
cuirassier  behind  our  lines,  showing  there  must  have 
been  a  time  when  they  actually  pierced  the  allied  centre. 
When  he  was  on  the  field  they  were  bringing  in  French 
prisoners,  who  would  have  been  massacred  by  the  Prus 
sians  but  that  English  soldiers  guarded  them.  Many 
years  afterwards  the  Duke  of  Wellington  said  to  my 


134  AT  THE  LIBRARY  TABLE 

father,  in  his  abrupt  way,  'You  were  at  Waterloo,  I 
think?'  'No,'  he  replied  'I  am  sorry  to  say.'  'Why 
sorry  to  say,'  rejoined  Wellington,  'if  you  had  been 
there,  you  might  not  have  been  here.'  Another  of  his 
anecdotes  about  the  Duke  is  that  just  after  Waterloo, 
where  it  is  well  known  that  a  great  part  of  the  allied 
army  was  wholly  routed,  some  officers  were  talking 
about  who  'ran',  when  Wellington,  who  had  been 
quietly  listening  to  these  unhopeful  personalities,  cut  in 
thus:  "  'Run!  who  wouldn't  have  run  under  a  fire  like 
that?  I  am  sure  I  should — if  I  had  known  any  place  to 
run  to.'  " 

One  incident  in  his  army  life  is  of  interest.  Some 
thirty  years  ago  Mr.  Maunsell  B.  Field,  a  gentleman 
whose  title  to  fame  is  somewhat  dubious,  published  a 
book  called  "Memories  of  Many  Men."  He  knew 
James  well,  and  collaborated  with  him  in  one  of  his 
books — "Adrian,  or  the  Clouds  of  the  Mind."  Mr. 
Field  says,  after  mentioning  an  alleged  fact  which  is 
not  a  fact,  viz:  that  James  was  taken  prisoner  before 
the  battle  of  Waterloo  and  detained  until  after  the  bat 
tle,  "The  incident  which  occurred  during  his  confine 
ment  there  cast  a  gloom  upon  the  rest  of  his  life.  For 
some  cause  which  he  never  explained  to  me,  he  became 
engaged  in  a  duel  with  a  French  officer.  He  escaped 
unhurt  himself,  but  wounded  his  adversary  who  died, 
after  lingering  for  months.  I  have  still  in  my  possession 
the  old-fashioned  pistols  with  which  this  duel  was 
fought,  which  my  deceased  friend  presented  to  me  at 
the  time  of  our  early  acquaintance."*  Field's  story  is 
made  up  in  a  ridiculously  inaccurate  way.  James  was 


*  Memories:    by    M.    B.    Field    p.    188 — Harper's, 
1874. 


GEORGE  P.  R.  JAMES  135 

not  captured  before  Waterloo,  or  after  it,  for  that  mat 
ter.  During  his  later  travels  he  became  involved  in  a 
difficulty  with  a  French  officer  and  found  himself  com 
pelled,  according  to  the  absurd  practice  of  the  time,  to 
fight  a  duel  with  him.  The  Frenchman  was  not  killed, 
but  only  wounded  in  the  arm,  and  the  duel  was  fought 
with  swords,  not  with  pistols !  The  truth  is,  that  after 
the  sword-duel,  James  was  challenged  to  fight  again 
with  pistols.  Mr.  C.  L.  James  writes  me  thus :  "It 
made  him  (G.  P.  R.  James)  very  angry;  and,  being  a 
good  shot  then,  he  felt  confident  of  the  result  if  he 
should  accept  but  said  he  would  put  the  point  of  honor 
to  the  French  officer's  regiment.  They  replied  by  invit 
ing  him  to  dine  at  the  mess.  On  receiving  this  message, 
he  took  up  his  pistols  which  were  ready,  loaded,  say 
ing  'then  we  shall  have  no  use  for  these,'  and  at  that 
moment  one  of  them  went  off,  sending  the  bullet 
through  the  floor  close  to  his  foot,  though  he  felt  sure 
they  were  not  cocked."  Mr.  Field  undoubtedly  meant 
to  tell  the  truth,  but  his  reminiscences  cannot  be  relied 
upon  in  regard  to  James  or  to  any  one  else. 

As  a  lad  of  seventeen  he.  wrote  a  number  of  sketches, 
afterwards  published  under  the  title  of  "A  String  of 
Pearls,"  which  were  rather  free  translations  from  the 
oriental  tales  he  had  studied  so  fondly.*  He  travelled 
extensively  for  those  times,  visiting  France  and  Spain 
soon  after  the  abdication  of  Napoleon.  These  early 
travels  and  adventures  supplied  him  with  the  idea  of 
Morley  Ernstein.  He  became  acquainted  with  Cuvier 
and  other  men  of  eminence,  and  it  is  gratifying  to 


*Allibone  gives  the  date  of  publication  as  1849;  but 
it  must  have  been  published  in  some  form  prior  to  May 
17,  1833.  See/>o5f,  page  184. 


136  AT  THE  LIBRARY  TABLE 

Americans  to  know  that  Washington  Irving  liked  him 
and  gave  him  encouragement.  It  has  been  said  that  his 
first  work  was  the  Life  of  Edward  the  Black  Prince, 
said  to  have  been  produced  in  1822,  but  one  of  my  let 
ters,  written  in  1835,  indicates  that  it  was  not  produced 
earlier  than  1836.  The  son  thinks  it  must  have  been 
written  before  1830.  He  had  a  disposition  to  enter 
political  life,  but  he  abandoned  the  idea  in  1827.  He 
was  a  mild  Tory.  His  ambition  was  in  the  direction  of 
a  diplomatic  career.  His  father  had  some  influence  with 
Lord  Liverpool,  who  offered  him  the  post  of  Secretary 
to  an  Embassy  to  China, — a  temporary  appointment 
only,  and  one  which  promised  him  no  preferment.  It 
was  declined,  and  a  week  later  Lord  Liverpool  died 
suddenly. 

In  1828  he  married  the  daughter  of  Honoratus 
Leigh  Thomas,  an  eminent  physician  of  that  day.  She 
survived  her  husband  exactly  thirty-one  years,  dying  at 
Eau  Claire,  Wisconsin,  on  June  9th,  1891.  The  asser 
tion  made  in  some  accounts  of  him  that  James  married 
in  the  United  States  is  wholly  untrue.  After  the  mar 
riage,  they  lived  in  France,  Italy  and  Scotland. 

In  1825  he  wrote  his  first  novel,  Richelieu,  which 
was  not  published  until  1829.  Regarded  by  many  as 
the  best  of  his  novels,  it  is  an  excellent  example  of  his 
strength  and  of  his  weakness.  It  deals  with  elementary 
emotions,  and  makes  but  slight  attempts  to  portray 
character  except  in  the  simplest  and  most  obvious  way. 
Although  it  bears  the  name  of  the  great  Cardinal,  it 
might  as  well  have  been  called  "Louis  XIII",  or  "Cha- 
vigni,"  or  "The  Count  de  Blenau",  for  Richelieu  him 
self  appears  but  seldom  on  the  scene  and  is  not  the  hero 
or  the  central  figure.  The  narrative  runs  briskly  on, 
plentifully  seasoned  with  deeds  of  daring  and  hair- 


GEORGE  P.  R.  JAMES  137 

breadth  escapes,  culminating  in  the  familiar  climax  of 
the  almost  miraculous  arrival  of  a  pardon  when  the  hero 
has  bared  his  neck  to  receive  the  axe  of  the  executioner. 
It  is  evident  from  the  outset  that  the  nobleman  whose 
fortunes  are  the  subject  of  the  story  and  the  conven 
tional  lady  of  his  love  will  marry  and  "be  happy  ever 
after."  The  abundant  historical  and  antiquarian  pad 
ding  is  admirably  devised  and  executed,  well  placed 
and  never  tiresome.  The  tale  is  skilfully  constructed 
and  if  it  teaches  any  lesson,  it  is  that  of  courage,  truth, 
honor  and  loyalty.  Our  modern  "historical  novels"  are 
in  many  respects  distinctly  inferior  to  Richelieu.  Singu 
larly  enough,  he  did  not  include  it  in  the  revised  edition 
of  his  Works. 

After  reading  Richelieu,  Sir  Walter  Scott  advised 
him  to  adopt  literature  as  a  profession,  and  as  he  imi 
tated  Scott,  the  value  of  the  advice  is  not  to  be  under 
estimated.  As  Mr.  Field's  story  goes,  James  had  kept 
the  manuscript  concealed  from  his  father,  but  he  man 
aged  to  get  an  introduction  to  Scott,  who  promised  to 
give  him  his  opinion.  After  six  months  no  news  had 
come  from  Scotland.  James  was  riding  one  day  in  Bond 
Street,  when,  his  horse  shying,  his  carriage  was  pressed 
against  another.  The  occupant  of  the  other  carriage 
was  Scott,  and  he  invited  James  to  call  upon  him.  To 
his  surprise  and  delight,  Scott  praised  the  book  highly, 
and  wrote  his  opinion,  which  enabled  the  lucky  author 
to  find  a  publisher,  to  whom  he  sold  the  copyright  for 
a  song.  In  his  General  Preface  to  the  Works  (1844- 
1849)  James  himself  gives  a  very  different  account  of 
the  matter.  He  says  that  a  friend  showed  Sir  Walter 
one  volume  of  a  romance  written  long  before,  and  he 
himself  sent  a  letter  to  Scott  asking  advice  in  regard  to 
persevering  in  a  literary  career.  Some  months  passed, 


138  AT  THE  LIBRARY  TABLE 

and  James  "felt  somewhat  mortified  and  a  good  deal 
grieved"  at  receiving  no  response,  but  one  day,  on  re 
turning  from  thec  ountry  to  London,  he  found  a  packet 
on  his  table  containing  the  volume  and  a  note.  "The 
opinion  expressed  in  that  note"  adds  James  "was  more 
favourable  than  I  had  ever  expected,  and  certainly  more 
favourable  than  I  deserved;  for  Sir  Walter  was  one 
of  the  most  lenient  of  critics,  especially  to  the  young. 
However,  it  told  me  to  persevere,  and  I  did  so."*  Irv 
ing  and  Scott  united  in  encouraging  him  to  produce  his 
next  novel,  Darnley,  with  another  great  Cardinal  as  a 
principal  character.  Darnley  was  sketched  and  drafted 
at  Montreuil-sur-Mer  in  December,  1828,  and  was  com 
pleted  in  a  few  months.  It  is  still  popular  with  readers 
of  fiction  and  has  much  of  the  charm  which  pervades  its 
predecessor.  James  lived  for  a  time  at  Evreux,  and  De 
I'Orme,  written  there  in  1829,  appeared  in  1830.  Philip 
Augustus  was  produced  in  less  than  seven  weeks,  and 
was  published  in  1831.  Under  William  IV  he  was 
appointed  Historiographer  Royal,  and  published  sev 
eral  pamphlets  officially.!  In  1 842  he  lived  at  Walmer, 
and  was  frequently  a  guest  of  the  Duke  of  Wellington 
at  Walmer  Castle — a  fact  jocosely  mentioned  in  the 
Life  of  Charles  Lever,  where  it  is  recorded  that  Lever 
said  to  McGlashan  that  he  must  beware  of  James,  who 
had  become  dangerous  from  irritation,  but  suggested 
that  as  James  had  been  dining  twice  a  week  with  the 
Duke,  "he  had  eaten  himself  into  a  more  than  ordinary 
bilious  temper."§  In  1845  he  went  to  Germany,  partly 
for  recreation  and  partly  to  obtain  information  to  be 


*Works  Vol.  I.  "The  Gipsey,"  vii. 

tDictionary  of  National  Biography,  xxix,  209-210. 

§Fitzpatrick's  Life  of  Lever,  II — 21. 


GEORGE  P.  R.  JAMES  139 

used  in  the  History  of  Richard  Coeur  de  Lion,  upon 
which  he  was  then  engaged.  The  illness  of  his  chil 
dren  detained  him  for  a  year;  and  at  Karlsruhe  and 
Baden-Baden  he  wrote  Heidelberg  and  the  Castle  of 
Ehrenstein.  On  his  return  to  England  he  lived  for 
some  time  near  Farnham,  Surrey,  where  he  wrote 
voluminously.  He  was  accustomed  to  rise  at  five  in  the 
morning,  to  write  with  his  own  hand  until  nine,  and 
later  in  the  day  to  dictate  to  an  amanuensis,  walking  to 
and  fro  meanwhile. 

Towards  1850  he  decided  to  leave  England  and  go 
to  America.  His  original  intention  was  to  settle  in 
Canada.  He  had  met  with  severe  pecuniary  reverses. 
The  collected  edition  of  his  works  was  illustrated  with 
steel  engravings,  but  after  a  few  volumes  had  appeared 
the  publisher  failed.  The  engraver  sued  James  as  a 
partner  in  the  enterprise,  and  poor  James  had  to  pay 
several  thousand  pounds.  In  this  plight  he  sought  his 
friend,  the  Duke  of  Northumberland,  who  endeavored 
to  dissuade  him  from  leaving  England  and  offered  him 
a  signed  check,  with  the  amount  left  blank,  asking  him 
to  accept  it  and  fill  the  blank  himself.  To  his  credit, 
James  declined  the  generous  gift.* 

When  he  reached  New  York  in  July,  1850,  he  took 
lodgings  in  the  old  New  York  Hotel.  He  had  many 
letters  of  introduction,  including  one  to  Horace  Gree- 
ley,  who,  he  said,  had  "the  head  of  a  Socrates  and  the 
face  of  a  baby."  Hotel  life  proving  unsatisfactory,  he 
rented  Charles  Astor  Bristed's  house  at  Hell  Gate,  op 
posite  Astoria.  Of  his  many  troubles  in  getting  into 
his  new  home,  he  wrote  an  amusing  account  in  verse 


*This  is  all  according  to  Field,  and  may  be  taken  for 
what  it  is  worth. 
10 


I4o  AT  THE  LIBRARY  TABLE 

which  Mr.  Field  prints.*  Field  tells  a  story  of  a  wealthy 
man  of  New  York  who  was  introduced  to  James,  and 
remarked  that  he  was  a  great  admirer  of  the  works, 
that  he  believed  he  had  read  all  that  were  published, 
and  that  there  was  one  "which  he  vastly  preferred  to  all 
the  others."  "And  which  is  that?"  asked  James.  "The 
Last  Days  of  Pompeii,"  was  the  answer.  "That  is 
Bulwer's,  not  mine,"  replied  the  mortified  novelist.  He 
also  tells  of  a  lady  who  found  in  a  village  library  what 
she  supposed  to  be  a  copy  of  an  English  edition  of  one 
of  James's  novels  in  two  volumes.  She  read  them  with 
much  enjoyment,  and  did  not  discover  until  she  had 
finished  them,  that  she  had  been  reading  the  first  volume 
of  one  and  the  second  volume  of  another.  With  admir 
able  tact  and  discretion  Field  told  this  to  James,  and 
says  "he  winced  under  it." 

In  1851  he  hired  a  furnished  house  at  Stockbridge, 
Massachusetts,  and  later  he  bought  property  there, 
making  some  laudable  efforts  at  farming,  Mr.  Field 
says: 

"In  the  meantime  he  was  also  industriously  pegging 
away  at  book-making,  although  to  the  casual  observer 
he  appeared  to  be  the  least  occupied  man  in  the  place. 
He  never  did  any  literary  work  after  eleven  o'clock  A. 
M.  until  evening.  He  was  not  accustomed  to  put  his 
own  hand  to  paper,  when  composing,  but  always 
employed  an  amanuensis.  At  this  time  he  had  in  his 
service  in  that  capacity  the  brother  of  an  Irish  baronet, 
who  spoke  and  wrote  English,  French,  German  and 
Italian,  and  whom  I  had  procured  for  him  at  the  modest 
stipend  of  five  dollars  a  week.  When  James  was  dic 
tating,  he  always  kept  a  paper  of  snuff  upon  the  table 
on  which  his  secretary  wrote,  and  he  would  stride  up 


*Memoirs,  191-195. 


GEORGE  P.  R.  JAMES  141 

and  down  the  room,  stopping  every  few  minutes  for  a 
fresh  supply  of  the  titillating  powder.  He  never  looked 
at  the  manuscript,  or  made  any  corrections  except  upon 
proof-sheets." 

During  that  summer  James  and  Field  produced 
Adrian,  finishing  it  in  five  weeks.  Notwithstanding 
Field's  assertion  that  "it  was  very  kindly  received  by  the 
critics,"  it  does  not  appear  to  have  enjoyed  any  marked 
success. 

In  1852  he  was  appointed  British  Consul  at  Norfolk, 
Virginia.  He  was  not  contented  there,  as  we  may  see 
from  his  letters;  but  he  received  many  kindnesses,  and 
on  the  last  night  he  spent  in  the  United  States  he  spoke 
to  Field  of  the  Virginians,  as  "a  warm  hearted  people." 
His  health  suffered  and  his  spirits  also ;  the  yellow  fever 
raged  in  the  city  and  caused  him  great  trouble  and 
anxiety.  While  in  the  United  States  he  wrote  Ticonde- 
roga,  The  Old  Dominion,  and  other  novels;  his  fertile 
pen  was  always  busy.  His  latest  work  was  The  Cavalier, 
published  in  1859.  In  1856  the  Consulate  was  removed 
to  Richmond.  At  his  earnest  request  he  was  trans 
ferred  from  Virginia  in  September,  1858,  and  was 
appointed  Consul  General  at  Venice,  where  it  was  hoped 
that  his  health  would  improve.  The  war  between 
France  and  Austria  soon  broke  out,  his  labors  and 
anxieties  were  increased  and  in  April,  1860,  his  illness 
became  serious.  On  June  9,  1860,  he  died  of  an 
apoplectic  stroke,  "an  utter  break  up  of  mind  preceding 
the  end"  as  Lever  wrote.  He  was  buried  in  Venice — 
some  accounts  say  in  the  Lido  cemetery,  but  the  monu 
ment,  erected  by  the  English  residents  in  Venice,  is  in 
the  Protestant  portion  of  the  cemetery  of  St.  Michele, 
which  is  on  an  island  not  far  from  the  Lido.  Laurence 
Hutton,  in  his  Literary  Landmarks  of  Venice,  refers  to 


142  AT  THE  LIBRARY  TABLE 

a  vague  tradition  among  the  older  alien  residents  that  he 
was  buried  in  the  Lido,  where,  Hutton  says,  there  are  a 
few  very  ancient  stones  and  monuments  marking  the 
graves  of  foreign  visitors  to  Venice,  none  of  them  seem 
ing  to  be  of  a  later  date  than  the  middle  of  the  eigh 
teenth  century.  But  Sir  Francis  Vincent,  the  last  Brit 
ish  Ambassador  to  the  Venetian  Republic,  is  buried 
there.  Mr.  Hutton  adds  that  the  stone  in  St.  Michele 
is  "a  tablet  blackened  by  time,  broken  and  hardly 
decipherable";  but  when  I  saw  it  in  the  summer  of  1906 
it  was  only  slightly  discolored,  and  not  broken  at  all. 
It  showed  no  evidence  of  restoration,  and  was  blackened 
only  as  much  as  much  as  might  be  expected  of  a  stone 
forty-five  years  old  in  a  climate  like  that  of  Venice.  The 
epitaph,  written  by  Walter  Savage  Landor,  is  absolutely 
distinct  and  easily  read. 

"George  Payne  Rainford  James. 

British  Consul  General  in  the  Adriatic. 

Died  in  Venice,  on  the  9th  day  of  June,  1860. 

His  merits  as  a  writer  are  known  wherever  the  Eng 
lish  language  is,  and  as  a  man  they  rest  on  the  hearts 
of  many. 

A  few  friends  have  erected  this  humble  and  perish 
able  monument." 

Hutton  attempts  to  give  the  epitaph  in  full  but  makes 
an  unaccountable  error  in  substituting  "heads"  for 
"hearts."  It  is  another  illustration  of  the  ill  will  of 
the  fates  that  even  on  his  tombstone  his  name  should 
be  inscribed  incorrectly.  "Rainford"  is  doubtless  the 
mistake  of  the  Italian  who  prepared  the  monument.* 


*It  is  said,  but  on  rather  dubious  authority,  that  he 
was  sometimes  called  "George  Prince  Regent  James," 
and  that  many  believed  it  to  be  his  real  name. 


GEORGE  P.  R.  JAMES  143 

Mr.  J.  A.  Hamilton,  in  the  Dictionary  of  National 
Biography,  says:  "An  epitaph,  in  terms  of  somewhat 
extravagant  eulogy,  was  written  by  Walter  Savage 
Landor."  The  epitaph,  which  I  copied  word  for  word, 
scarcely  deserves  Mr.  Hamilton's  censure.  Surely 
there  is  nothing  extravagant  about  it.  I  regret  that  in 
such  a  valuable  work  as  the  Dictionary,  the  account  of 
James  is  so  slight,  perfunctory,  and  in  many  respects 
inaccurate.  It  could  have  been  made  much  better,  and 
it  is  in  marked  contrast  with  most  of  the  biographical 
sketches  included  in  that  admirable  compendium. 

Mr.  Hamilton  sums  up  in  a  careless  and  indifferent 
way  the  literary  career  of  James.  "Flimsy  and  melo 
dramatic  as  James's  romances  are,  they  were  highly 
popular.  The  historical  setting  is  for  the  most  part 
laboriously  accurate,  and  though  the  characters  are 
without  life,  the  moral  tone  is  irreproachable;  there  is 
a  pleasant  spice  of  adventure  about  the  plots,  and  the 
style  is  clear  and  correct.  The  writer's  grandiloquence 
and  artificiality  are  cleverly  parodied  by  Thackeray  in 
'Barbazure,  by  G.  P.  R.  Jeames,  Esq.,  &c.,'  in  'Novels 
by  Eminent  Hands,'  and  the  conventional  sameness  of 
the  opening  of  his  novels,  'so  admirable  for  terseness,' 
is  effectively  burlesqued  in  'The  Book  of  Snobs,'  chap, 
ii.  and  xvi."  It  is  the  old  story:  Thackeray  made  fun 
of  him,  and  so — away  with  him !  Yet  there  was  a  time 
when  everybody  read  James  and  few  read  Thackeray. 
I  venture  to  assert  that  the  romances  are  neither  flimsy 
nor  melodramatic,  unless  Scott's  romances  are  flimsy 
and  melodramatic.  I  find  no  grandiloquence  in  them. 

Probably  the  best  and  most  authoritative  sketch  of 
his  life  is  contained  in  the  preface  which  he  wrote  for 
the  collected  edition  of  his  novels,  published,  in  twenty- 
one  volumes,  in  1844-1849.  Of  course  this  includes  no 


i44  AT  THE  LIBRARY  TABLE 

account  of  the  last  ten  years  of  his  career.  The  number 
of  volumes  he  gave  to  the  world  was  enormous,  as  may 
be  seen  from  the  list  of  his  works  compiled  from  the 
Dictionary  and  from  Allibone's  laboriously  minute 
record.*  They  tell  of  his  untiring  industry;  evidently 
he  loved  to  write  for  the  sake  of  writing.  His  books 
brought  him  a  goodly  income,  but  although  he  seems  to 
have  had  a  small  fortune  at  one  time,  he  was  generally 
poor;  careless  about  his  expenditure;  ever  ready  and 
willing  to  give  aid  to  those  who  needed  it,  particularly 
to  his  literary  brethren;  a  noble,  honest  Christian  gentle 
man,  devoid  of  selfishness;  a  good  husband  and  father, 
simple  and  direct  in  his  ways,  charitable,  open-hearted, 
deserving  of  the  esteem  and  affection  of  all  who  knew 
him.  It  was  said  of  him  by  a  writer  who  deplored  "the 
fatal  facility"  of  the  novels,  that  "there  is  a  soul  of  true 
goodness  in  them — no  maudlin  affectation  of  virtue,  but 
a  manly  rectitude  of  aim  which  they  derive  directly  from 
the  heart  of  the  writer.  His  enthusiastic  nature  is  visibly 
impressed  upon  his  productions.  They  are  full  of  his 
own  frank  and  generous  impulses — impulses  so  honor 
able  to  him  in  private  life.  Out  of  his  books,  there  is 
no  man  more  sincerely  beloved.  Had  he  not  even  been 
a  distinguished  author,  his  active  sympathy  in  the 
cause  of  letters  would  have  secured  to  him  the  attach 
ment  and  respect  of  his  contemporaries." 

His  activity  was  by  no  means  limited  to  the  field  of 
prose  fiction.  In  poetry,  he  produced  The  Ruined  City 
in  1828;  Blanche  of  Navarre,  a  five  act  play,  in  1839, 
and  Camaralzaman,  a  "fairy  drama"  in  three  acts,  in 
1848.  My  "first  edition"  of  Blanche  of  Navarre,  a 
pamphlet  of  ninety-eight  pages,  with  a  dedication  to 

'"See  Appendix. 


GEORGE  P.  R.  JAMES  145 

Talfourd, — until  it  came  into  my  hands.  After  an  exist 
ence  of  sixty-six  years,  unvexed  by  the  paper-knife,  and 
in  that  "unopened"  condition  so  dear  to  the  heart  of  a 
collector — does  not  disclose  any  good  reason  far  its 
creation.  The  finale  of  Act  III  is  an  example  of  its 
"lofty  poetic  tone" — 

"DON  JOHN  (pointing  to  the  gallery}. 
We  have  spectators  there!     A  lady  points! 
Let  us  go  succour  her! 

DON  FERDINAND   (stop-ping  him}. 

Nay,  I  beseech! 

Most  likely  'tis  my  sister! — Foolish  child! 
She  has  maids  there  enow, — Lo,  they  are  gone ! 
We'll  close  the  night  with  wine. 

[The  drop  scene  descends  to  dumb-show]." 

i 
So  we  might  suppose.    The  hospitable  suggestion  of 

Don  Ferdinand  has  a  flavor  of  reckless  rioting  about  it 
which  brings  to  mind  the  one  time  favorite  amusement 
of  a  Tammany  Hall  leader — "opening  wine." 

It  is  only  fair  to  let  him  tell  his  own  story  about  his 
literary  fecundity.  He  says : 

"Before  I  close  my  present  task,  I  may  be  permitted 
to  say  a  few  words  in  regard  to  the  observations  which 
are  uniformly  made  upon  every  author  who  writes  rap 
idly  and  often.  I  will  not  repeat  the  frequently  noticed 
fact,  that  the  best  writers  have  generally  been  the  most 
voluminous ;  for  I  must  contend  that  neither  the  number 
of  an  author's  works,  nor  the  rapidity  with  which  they 
are  produced,  affords  any  criterion  whatsoever  by  which 
to  judge  of  their  merit.  They  may  be  numerous  and  ex 
cellent,  like  those  of  Voltaire,  Scott,  Dryden,  Vega, 
Boccacio  and  others ;  they  may  be  rapidly  written,  and 
yet  accurate,  like  the  great  work  of  Fenelon,  and  they 
may  be  quite  the  reverse.  *  *  *  I  may  mention, 
in  my  own  case,  a  few  circumstances  which  may  ac- 


i46  AT  THE  LIBRARY  TABLE 

count  for  the  number  and  rapidity  of  my  works.  In 
the  first  place,  all  the  materials  for  the  tales  I  have 
written,  and  for  many  more  than  I  ever  shall  write, 
were  collected  long  before  this  idea  of  entering  upon  a 
literary  career  ever  crossed  my  mind.  In  the  next  place, 
I  am  an  early  riser,  and  any  one  who  has  that  habit  must 
know  that  it  is  a  grand  secret  for  getting  through  twice 
as  much  as  lazier  men  can  perform.  Again,  I  write 
and  read  during  some  portion  of  every  day,  except 
when  I  am  travelling,  and  even  then  if  possible.  I  need 
not  point  out,  that  regular  application  in  literary,  as 
well  as  all  other  kinds  of  labour,  will  effect  results  which 
no  desultory  efforts,  however  energetic,  can  obtain. 
Then,  again,  the  habit  of  dictating  instead  of  writing 
with  my  own  hand,  which  I  first  attempted  at  the  sug 
gestion  of  Sir  Walter  Scott,  relieves  me  of  the  manual 
labour  which  many  authors  have  to  undergo,  leaves 
the  mind  clear  and  free  to  act,  and  affords  facilities  in 
conceivable  to  those  who  have  not  tried,  or,  having 
tried,  have  not  been  able  to  attain  it."* 

I  am  not  convinced  that  the  custom  of  dictating  is  one 
which  should  be  observed  by  an  author  who  aims  at  the 
highest  excellence. 

In  the  accounts  of  his  life  and  his  work  there  are 
many  discrepancies  and  contradictions.  For  example 
Mr.  Allibone — who  is  not  altogether  trustworthy  in  de 
tails — tells  us  that  his  first  book  was  A  Life  of  Ed 
ward  the  Black  Prince,  published  in  1822  ;  but  the  Dic 
tionary  of  National  Biography  ascribes  that  publication 
to  the  year  1836,  and  the  Dictionary  is  undoubtedly 
right,  for  he  said  in  1835  "The  Black  Prince  comes  on 
but  slowly."f  The  Dictionary  says  that  as  "histori 
ographer  royal" — a  sonorous  title  which  must  have  af 
forded  great  pleasure  to  its  bearer — he  published  in 

*Works,  Vol.  I.  xiv. 

fLetter  to  Cunningham,  post,  page — . 


GEORGE  P.  R.  JAMES  147 

1839  a  History  of  the  United  States  Boundary  Ques 
tion,  but  Mr.  Allibone  insists  that  it  was  not  his  pro 
duction.  I  have  an  autograph  letter  of  James  which, 
I  think,  warrants  the  belief  that  Allibone  is  wrong.  The 
letter  is  a  good  example  of  his  serious  epistolary  style. 

"FAIR  OAK  LODGE,  PETERSFIELD 

HANTS,  4th  November,  1837. 
MY  LORD: — 

A  few  months  previous  to  the  death  of  his  late  Ma 
jesty,  he  was  pleased  to  appoint  me  Historiographer  in 
ordinary  for  England  into  which  office  I  was  duly 
sworn.  On  the  accession  of  Her  Majesty  our  present 
Queen,  although  I  was  informed  that  the  office  did  not 
necessarily  lapse  on  the  death  of  the  monarch  who  con 
ferred  it,  I  applied  to  Her  Majesty  through  her  Lord 
Chamberlain  for  her  gracious  confirmation  of  the  honor 
her  Royal  Uncle  had  conferred  upon  me.  Many  months 
have  now  elapsed  even  since  Lord  Conyngham  did  me 
the  honor  of  writing  to  inform  me  that  the  time  had  not 
then  arrived  for  Her  Majesty  to  take  into  consideration 
that  class  of  offices  and  I  am  induced  in  consequence  to 
apply  directly  to  your  Lordship  as  I  understand  that 
your  department  of  the  government  embraces  such  mat 
ters.  I  should  have  waited  longer  ere  I  thus  intruded 
upon  your  valuable  time  but  that  I  am  about  to  publish 
a  new  Historical  work  of  some  importance  in  the  title 
to  which  must  appear  whether  I  am  or  am  not  still 
Historiographer.  If  I  am  to  understand  by  the  si 
lence  which  has  been  maintained  upon  the  subject  that 
it  is  Her  Majesty's  determination  to  deprive  me  of  the 
office  which  her  royal  uncle  conferred  I  must  bow  to  her 
gracious  pleasure  and  neither  my  station  in  society,  my 
fortune,  or  my  views  of  what  is  right  require  or  permit 
me  to  say  one  word  to  alter  such  a  resolution.  Should 
that  determination  however  not  have  been  formed  allow 
me  to  submit  to  your  Lordship  that  to  dismiss  me  from 
a  post  to  which  I  was  so  lately  appointed  is  to  cast  a 
stigma  of  which  I  am  not  deserving.  If  I  have  ever 


148  AT  THE  LIBRARY  TABLE 

written  anything  that  is  calculated  to  injure  society;  if 
I  have  ever  debased  my  pen  to  pander  to  bad  appetites 
of  any  kind ;  if  I  have  ever  failed  to  dedicate  its  efforts 
to  the  promotion  of  truth,  virtue,  and  honor,  not  only 
let  the  dismissal  be  made  public  but  the  cause  of  that 
stigma  be  assigned.  But  if  on  the  contrary  to  have 
done  my  best,  and  that  perhaps  with  more  reputation 
than  my  writings  merit,  to  promote  all  that  is  good  and 
noble;  if  to  have  bestowed  vast  labour,  anxious  re 
search,  valuable  time,  and  many  hundreds  of  pounds 
for  which  I  can  hope  no  return  on  such  works  as  the 
History  of  Charlemagne,  the  History  of  Edward  the 
Black  Prince,  the  History  of  Chivalry,  and  my  letters 
to  Lord  Brougham  on  the  system  of  Education  in  the 
higher  German  States — if  these  circumstances  afford 
any  claim  to  honor  or  distinction,  I  think  in  my  case  they 
may  stand  in  the  way  of  an  act  which  I  cannot  yet  make 
up  my  mind  to  believe  that  Her  Majesty's  present  min 
isters  would  advise.  I  have  given  up  the  expectation 
indeed  that  a  fair  share  of  honors  and  distinctions — 
or  in  fact  any  share  at  all — should  be  bestowed  upon 
literary  men  in  this  country,  even  when  a  high  educa 
tion,  upright  conduct,  and  a  fortune  not  ill  employed 
combine  with  literary  reputation;  but  I  still  trust  that 
that  which  has  been  given  will  not  be  taken  away. 

I  have  now  to  apologize,  my  Lord — and  I  feel  that 
an  apology  is  very  necessary — for  addressing  this  letter 
to  your  private  house;  but  your  kindness  and  courtesy 
when,  as  a  result  of  some  communications  between  my 
friend  Sir  David  Brewster  and  myself,  I  addressed  you 
on  the  state  of  literature  in  England  have  encouraged 
me  to  trespass  upon  you  in  some  manner. 

I  have  the  honor  to  be,  my  Lord,  your  Lordship's 
most  obedient  servant 

G.  P.  R.  JAMES." 

I  have  not  been  able  to  discover  what  effect  this  letter 
had,  but  it  is  evident  that  the  'Historical  work'  was 
the  pamphlet  on  the  Boundary  Question  as  I  do  not 


GEORGE  P.  R.  JAMES  149 

find  a  record  of  any  other  "historiographical"  work  to 
which  the  language  of  the  letter  is  applicable. 

The  Dictionary  of  National  Biography  credits  James 
with  Memoirs  of  Celebrated  Women  (three  volumes, 
1837),  but  Allibone  says  that  he  had  no  share  in  it, 
further  than  writing  a  preface  or  "something  of  that 
kind."  The  Dictionary  further  informs  us  that  "about 
1850  he  was  appointed  British  Consul  for  Massachu 
setts" — an  impossible  office — and  that  he  was  trans 
ferred  to  Norfolk,  Virginia,  in  1852,  becoming  Consul 
General  at  Venice  in  1856.  Allibone  makes  him  Con 
sul  at  Richmond,  Virginia,  in  1852  and  Consul  General 
at  Venice  in  September,  1858.  His  friend  Hall  places 
him  at  Norfolk  in  1852  and  in  Venice  in  1859.  Apple- 
ton's  Cyclopaedia  follows  Allibone  as  to  dates,  but  very 
properly  ignores  Richmond  in  favor  of  Norfolk.  The 
Encyclopaedia  Brittannica  says  that  Irving  encouraged 
him  to  produce  the  Life  of  the  Black  Prince  in  1822 
(an  evident  error),  sends  him  as  "Consul  to  Rich 
mond"  in  1852  and  transfers  him  to  Venice  in  Septem 
ber,  1858.  The  truth  is  that  he  went  to  Norfolk  in 
1852,  to  Richmond  in  1856,  and  to  Venice  in  1858. 
As  we  have  seen,  even  the  place  of  his  interment  is  not 
without  uncertainty.  These  variances  in  regard  to  the 
facts  of  his  life  are  due  to  the  comparative  neglect  which 
has  befallen  his  memory.  Perhaps  they  are  not  of  much 
importance.  Although  he  had  numerous  friends  and 
acquaintances,  none  of  them,  except  Mr.  S.  C.  Hall  and 
Maunsell  B.  Field,  left  anything  approaching  an 
account  of  his  life,  and  even  Mr.  Hall's  reminiscences 
are  meagre  and  cursory,  while  Mr.  Field's  are  largely 
apocryphal. 

He  surely  possessed  the  art  of  making  friends. 
Before  his  marriage  he  knew  not  only  Scott  and  Irving, 


1 50  AT  THE  LIBRARY  TABLE 

but  Byron,  Leigh  Hunt,  and  Walter  Savage  Landor, 
his  friendship  with  Hunt  and  Landor  continuing  to  the 
end  of  his  life.  Probably  he  never  saw  Shelley,  but  he 
admired  greatly  the  writings  of  that  radical  enthusiast. 
He  knew  Thackeray,  but  did  not  like  him;  perhaps  the 
parody  galled  him.  He  detested  the  brilliant,  showy, 
shallow  Count  D'Orsay.  His  son  says  that  he  never 
heard  his  father  speak  of  Dickens  as  if  they  had  met.* 
"He  fully  acknowledged  the  power  and  versatility  of 
Dickens's  works,  but  there  was  something  in  them  which 
did  not  please  him.  He  had  detected,  if  it  is  there — 
suspected,  if  it  is  not — the  essential  vulgarity  which  this 
master  of  pathos  and  humor  is  said  to  have  shown  those 
who  came  in  personal  contact  with  him."  He  had  some 
acquaintance  with  Bulwer  Lytton.  "It  is  odd"  remarks 
the  younger  James  "but  his  tone  towards  this  eminent 
author,  who  at  some  points  (Richelieu  and  the  historic 
novels)  approached  near  enough  his  own  line  for  ri 
valry,  was  rather  one  of  compassion.  He  knew  the  per 
sonal  and  domestic  sorrows  of  one  whom  unfriendly 
critics  accused  of  soulless  dandyism;  and  he  seemed  to 
have  a  sort  of  friendly  feeling  for  that  partially  unsuc 
cessful  ambition  which  made  the  author  of  books  as 
unlike  as  Pelham  and  Pausonias  attempt  so  many  things 
without  reaching  the  highest  rank  in  any."  The  Duke 
of  Northumberland,  the  Duke  of  Wellington,  Charles 
Lever,  Thomas  Campbell,  and  Allan  Cunningham, 
were  also  friends.  In  America,  he  was  known  and  well 
received  by  President  Pierce,  Hawthorne,  Longfellow, 
Charles  Sumner,  Farragut,  Barren,  Henry  A.  Wise, 
Roger  A.  Pryor,  John  Tyler,  Winder,  General  Scott, 
Edward  Everett,  Marcy,  Caleb  Gushing  and  a  host  of 


*Letter  of  C.  L.  James. 


GEORGE  P.  R.  JAMES  151 

others.  His  gentle,  modest  nature,  his  cultivated  taste, 
and  his  frank,  pleasant  ways  seem  to  have  attracted  all 
who  came  within  the  circle  of  his  friendship.  He 
had  much  conversation  with  Marcy.  Each  had  some 
idea  of  sounding  the  other  diplomatically;  both  took 
snuff  and  neither  proposed  to  be  sounded.  When  James 
asked  Marcy  something  which  the  latter  did  not  choose 
to  answer,  Marcy  would  ask  him  for  a  pinch  of  snuff, 
and  he  readily  perceived  that  this  evasion  was  as  good 
for  two  as  for  one. 

The  late  Donald  G.  Mitchell  speaks  of  him  as  "an 
excellent,  industrious  man,  who  drove  his  trade  of  novel- 
making — as  our  engineers  drive  wells — with  steam,  and 
pistons,  and  borings,  and  everlasting  clatter",  adding 
that  "what  he  might  have  done,  with  a  modern  type 
writer  at  command,  it  is  painful  to  imagine.  But  he 
gives  us  the  best  account  I  have  seen  of  the  personal  ap 
pearance  of  James. 

"I  caught  sight  of  this  great  necromancer  of  'miniver 
furs,'  and  mantua-making  chivalry — in  youngish  days, 
in  the  city  of  New  York — where  he  was  making  a  little 
over-ocean  escape  from  the  multitudinous  work  that 
flowed  from  him  at  home;  a  well-preserved  man,  of 
scarce  fifty  years,  stout,  erect,  gray-haired,  and  with 
countenance  blooming  with  mild  uses  of  mild  English 
ale — kindly,  unctuous — showing  no  signs  of  deep 
thoughtfulness  or  of  harassing  toil.  I  looked  him  over, 
in  boyish  way,  for  traces  of  the  court  splendor  I  had 
gazed  upon,  under  his  ministrations,  but  saw  none ;  nor 
anything  of  the  'manly  beauty  of  features,  rendered 
scarcely  less  by  a  deep  scar  upon  the  forehead',  nor  'of 
the  gray  cloth  doublets  slashed  with  purple;'  a  stanch 
honest,  amiable,  well-dressed  Englishman. — that  was 
all."* 


'English  Lands,  Letters  and  Kings,  284. 


152  AT  THE  LIBRARY  TABLE 

Mr.  Mitchell  surely  did  not  expect  to  see  Mr.  James  at 
tired  in  armor,  with  a  scarred  face,  because  he  wrote  of 
armed  knights,  and  his  remarks  certainly  appear  to  be 
boyish  in  the  extreme.  But  he  atones  for  them  by  saying : 

"And  yet,  what  delights  he  had  conjured  for  us !  Shall 
we  be  ashamed  to  name  them,  or  to  confess  it  all?  Shall 
the  modern  show  of  new  flowerets  of  fiction,  and  of 
lilies — forced  to  the  front  in  January — make  us  forget 
utterly  the  old  cinnamon  roses,  and  the  homely  but  fra 
grant  pinks,  which  once  regaled  and  delighted  us,  in  the 
April  and  May  of  our  age?" 

Mr.  Field  says  of  him :  "If  he  was  sometimes  a 
tedious  writer,  he  was  always  the  best  story-teller  that  I 
ever  listened  to.  He  had  known  almost  everybody  in 
his  own  country,  and  he  never  forgot  anything.  The 
literary  anecdotes  alone  which  I  have  heard  him  relate 
would  suffice  to  fill  an  ordinary  volume.  He  was  a  big 
hearted  man,  too — tender,  merciful,  and  full  of  relig 
ious  sentiment;  a  good  husband,  a  devoted  father,  and 
a  fast  friend."  Such  is  the  testimony  of  all  his  acquaint 
ances  who  have  left  any  record  of  their  impressions. 

It  is  not  my  purpose  to  present  any  critical  study  of 
James  or  of  his  works,  but  only  to  submit  a  few  of  his 
unpublished  letters,  in  which  his  easy  grace  of  style 
and  his  frank  and  simple  nature  are  manifest;  to  give 
some  of  the  contemporary  estimates  of  him ;  and  to  re 
call  to  the  minds  of  readers  of  our  own  day  a  literary 
personality  which  should  not  be  entirely  forgotten. 

Among  the  good  friends  of  James  of  whom  I  have 
spoken  was  that  other  novelist,  almost  as  prolific  in  pro 
duction,  but  better  remembered  by  modern  readers — 
Charles  Lever.  When  the  author  of  Charles  O'Malley 
was  the  editor  of  the  Dublin  University  Magazine,  he 


GEORGE  P.  R.  JAMES  153 

wrote  to  a  certain  Reverend  Edward  Johnson,  now 
wholly  lost  to  fame,  requesting  him  to  contribute  to  the 
magazine  and  inviting  him  to  visit  the  editor;  but  by 
mistake  he  addressed  the  letter  to  James.  "Though  he 
liked  the  man"  says  Mr.  Fitzpatrick,  "he  rather  pooh- 
poohed  the  stereotyped  'two  cavaliers'  of  G.  P.  R. 
James,  who  of  a  fine  autumnal  day  might  be  seen,  etc."* 
Lever  was  too  kind-hearted  to  explain  the  error,  and 
James  not  only  contributed  to  the  magazine  but  visited 
Lever  at  Templeogue.  The  story  "De  Lunatico  In- 
quirendo"  was  supposed  to  have  been  written  by  Lever, 
who  wrote  only  the  preface.  "Arrah  Neil"  was  pub 
lished  in  the  Magazine,  a  work  which  has  peculiar  mer 
it  and  one  character,  Captain  Barecolt,  who  is  among 
James's  best  people.  It  is  said  that  James  abused  Mc- 
Glashan  for  having  "emasculated  his  jokes".  "Where 
be  they?  as  we  used  to  say  in  the  Catechism"  was  Lev 
er's  comment.  One  Major  Dwyer,  referred  to  in  Fitz- 
patrick's  Life  of  Lever,  says:  "Lever  would  some 
times  say  that  he  wanted  powder  for  his  magazine.  'It 
is  doubtful  whether  James's  contributions'  he  said, 
'were  James's  powders  at  all,  or  merely  that  inferior 
substitute  which  the  Pharmacopoeia  condemns.'  "  Cham 
ber's  Cyclopaedia  stated,  twenty  years  before  the  death 
of  James,  that  he  was  in  the  habit  of  dictating  to 
minor  scribes  his  thick-coming  fancies.  Mr.  R.  H. 
Home  would  have  it  that  he  always  dictated  his  novels, 
but  that  was  a  very  exaggerated  statement.  He  dic 
tated  only  at  intervals.  Major  Dwyer  tells  of  a  novel 
composed  by  James  at  Baden,  that  "it  was  penned  by  an 
English  artist  who  resided  at  Lichtenthal,  and  also  spoke 
the  purest  South  Devonian,  and  moreover  wrote  Eng- 


*Life  of  Lever,  II.  21. 


i54  AT  THE  LIBRARY  TABLE 

lish  nearly  as  he  pronounced  it.  James's  flowery- 
language  thus  rendered,  was  highly  amusing;  I  had  an 
opportunity  of  reading  some  pages  of  copy." 

In  spite  of  his  disparaging  remarks,  Lever  was  at 
tached  to  the  man  himself,  and  we  find  the  two  romance- 
writers  together  in  1845,  at  Karlsruhe — where,  as  Mr. 
Downey  says  in  his  Life  of  Lever,  "G.  P.  R.  James 
and  himself  were  the  cynosure  of  all  eyes" — and  later 
at  Baden.  Lever  dedicated  to  James  his  novel  Roland 
Cashel,  in  1849 — "a  Roland  for  your  Oliver,  or  rather 
for  your  Stepmother,"  said  Lever,  for  James  had  dedi 
cated  to  him  the  novel  with  that  title  in  1846.  Soon 
afterwards,  however,  they  became  separated,  as  James 
went  to  the  United  States  where  he  remained  about  eight 
years.  One  incident  connected  with  the  Dublin  is  worthy 
of  remembrance.  In  Volume  XXVII  of  the  Magazine 
( 1846)  appeared  some  verses  beginning  "A  cloud  is  on 
the  western  sky."  They  were  said  to  be  "Lines  by  G. 
P.  R.  James"  and  were  "prefaced  by  a  note :  'My  dear 

L ,  I  send  you  the  song  you  wished  to  have.  The 

Americans  totally  forgot,  when  they  so  insolently  cal 
culated  upon  aid  from  Ireland  in  a  war  with  England, 
that  their  own  apple  is  rotten  at  the  core.  A  nation 
with  five  or  six  million  slaves  who  would  go  to  war  with 
an  equally  strong  nation  with  no  slaves  is  a  mad  people. 
Yours,  G.  P.  R.  James.'  'The  Cloud,'  (amongst  other 
things  not  intended  to  be  pleasant  to  Americans) 
called  upon  the  dusky  millions  to  'shout,'  and  the  author 
of  the  'Lines'  declared  that  Britain  was  ready  to  "draw 
the  sword  in  the  sacred  cause  of  liberty."  It  was  Lever's 
joke.  Poor  James  had  never  heard  of  the  poem  until 
years  later,  in  1853,  an  attempt  was  made  to  drive 
him  out  of  Norfolk,  Virginia,  because  of  it.  "God 
forgive  me"  said  Lever,  "it  was  my  doing."  Lever  de 
clared  that  he  had  no  more  notion  of  James's  'powder* 


GEORGE  P.  R.  JAMES  155 

exciting  a  national  animosity  than  that  Holloway's 
Ointment  could  absorb  a  Swiss  glacier.*  The  son  says 
that  during  the  first  winter  they  spent  in  Norfolk  there 
were  no  less  than  eight  fires  in  the  house,  or  in  other 
parts  of  the  block,  which  James  attributed  to  deliberate 
attempts  to  burn  him  out  on  account  of  his  supposed 
abolitionist  views. 

Lever  was  Consul  at  Spezzia  when  James  was  in 
Venice,  and  they  renewed  their  old  intimacy.  The 
younger  James  says  that  Lever  was  a  very  eccentric 
genius — a  thorough  specimen  of  the  wild  Irishman. 
Among  his  traits  was  chronic  impecuniosity.  Another 
was  that  he  and  all  his  family  delighted  in  out-door  life 
and  could  do  everything  athletic.  "When  he  was  at 
Venice  he  told  us  he  was  threatened  with  a  visit  from  a 
British  war  vessel,  which  it  would  be  his  duty  to  receive 
in  state,  and  (of  course)  he  had  no  boat  or  other  means 
of  doing  so  with  proper  pomp.  'But,'  he  said,  'we  can 
take  the  British  flag  in  our  mouth  and  swim  out  to  meet 
her,  singing  Rule  Britannia.'  ' 

Notwithstanding  the  manifestations  of  hostility  by 
the  good  people  of  Norfolk,  it  may  be  remembered  that 
when  James  was  transferred  to  Venice,  the  Virginian 
poet,  John  R.  Thompson,  addressed  to  him  some  fare 
well  verses,  published  in  the  Southern  Literary  Messen 
ger,  beginning: 

Good  bye !  they  say  the  time  is  up — 

The  "solitary  horseman"  leaves  us, 
We'd  like  to  take  a  "stirrup  cup", 

Though  much  indeed  the  parting  grieves  us: 
We'd  like  to  hear  the  glasses  clink 

Around  a  board  where  none  was  tipsy, 
And  with  a  hearty  greeting  drink 

This  toast — The  Author  of  the  Gipsey! 


*Fitzpatrick's  Life  of  Lever  II.  418. 
11 


156  AT  THE  LIBRARY  TABLE 

The  same  Major  Dwyer  relates  at  some  length  the 
conversations  of  the  guests  at  Lever's  home  in  Ireland. 
Speaking  of  a  visit  of  Thackeray  about  1842,  he  says: 
""James  had  been  living  at  Brussels  previously,  and  an 
intimacy  had  sprung  up  between  Lever  and  him.  Thack 
eray's  star  was  then  barely  peeping  over  the  eastern 
horizon ;  Lever's  had  attained  an  altitude  that  rendered 
it  clearly  visible  to  the  uncharmed  eye,  whilst  James's 
had  already  passed  its  point  of  culmination,  and  was 
in  its  descending  node."  I  do  not  know  what  the  elo 
quent  Major  meant  by  an  "uncharmed  eye,"  but  his 
figures  of  speech  are  quite  luxuriant.  He  does  not  think 
that  Thackeray  and  James  met  at  Lever's  house,  but 
he  tells  of  a  dinner  there,  where  a  Captain  Siborne, 
Doctor  Anster,  and  the  Major  were  asked  to  meet 
James.  It  appears  that  after  dinner,  James  took  a  very 
decided  lead  in  the  conversation  on  horsemanship  and 
military  tactics.  "James"  remarks  the  Major,  "was 
not  horsey  looking;  one  would  at  first  sight  be  inclined 
to  set  him  down  as  an  exception  to  the  general  rule,  that 
'all  Britons  are  born  riders' ;  he  looked  more  like  a  sea 
man  than  a  soldier."  This  is  deliciously  fatuous — as  if 
a  man  could  not  talk  well  about  horses  unless  he  had  a 
horsey  look  or  drive  fat  oxen  unless  he  himself  were  fat. 
It  is  like  the  Mitchell  prattle  about  his  having  no 
scar  and  wearing  no  doublet.  In  talking  about 
horses  and  riders,  James  evidently  did  not  foresee 
that  in  the  future  his  name  would  be  so  closely 
associated  with  "one  horseman"  or  even  two,  threading 
romantic  gorges.  Perhaps  it  would  have  been  better 
for  his  fame,  if  he  had  eschewed  horsemen.  "Why," 
continues  the  Major,  "he  should  have  selected  two  such 
topics  puzzled  both  Siborne  and  myself,  but  I  subse 
quently  found  that  James  liked  to  seize  upon  and  talk 


GEORGE  P.  R.  JAMES  157 

categorically  about  things  which  other  individuals  of 
the  company  present  might  be  suspected  of  considering 
their  own  peculiar  hobbies."  This  device  for  enliven 
ing  post-prandial  dullness  by  stirring  up  solemn  and 
conceited  prigs  is  quite  familiar,  but  it  does  not  seem  to 
have  occurred  to  the  Major  that  the  clever  novelist  was 
making  game  of  the  two  military  magnates.  He  tells 
us  further  how  Siborne  declined  "to  discuss  professional 
matters  with  a  civilian,"  and  closes  his  pompous  and 
heavy  remarks  with  this  gem  of  concentrated  wisdom: 
"James,  so  fond  of  horseflesh,  finished  his  career  as 
Consul  General  at  Venice  where  the  sight  of  a  horse  is 
never  seen."  I  suppose  that  the  Major  would  have 
considered  it  more  fitting  if  James  had  selected  some 
place  to  die  in  where  'the  sight  of  a  horse  could  be  seen' 
at  all  times  by  merely  looking  out  of  the  window.  It  is 
not  difficult  to  imagine  the  joy  with  which  the  nimble- 
minded  James  put  through  their  paces  the  heavy-witted 
and  cumbrous  Captain  and  Major  at  the  pleasant  din 
ner-table  of  Charles  Lever.  It  reminds  me  of  an  occa 
sion  when  a  sincere  and  simple-minded  Briton  under 
took  to  engage  in  single  combat  with  Mark  Twain  over 
a  statement  thrown  out  by  the  equally  sincere  and  sim 
ple-minded  Clemens  that  the  people  of  the  Phillipine 
Islands  had  a  perfect  right  to  make  arson  and  murder 
lawful  if  they  considered  it  proper  to  incorporate  in 
their  constitution  a  provision  to  that  effect.  His  power 
ful  arguments  did  not  produce  the  slightest  change  in 
the  convictions  of  Mr.  Clemens. 

However  severely  the  sapient  compilers  of  Cham 
bers'  Cyclopaedia  or  the  critics  of  our  own  generation 
may  sneer  at  the  novels — the  fiction  of  the  twentieth 
century  being  in  the  estimation  of  our  contemporaries 
so  vastly  superior  to  all  that  has  gone  before' — it  is 


158  AT  THE  LIBRARY  TABLE 

something  to  have  had  the  approval  of  Christopher 
North,  who  was  not  given  to  bestowing  lavish  com 
mendation  upon  the  work  of  mere  Englishmen.  If  you 
will  take  from  the  shelves  the  Nodes  Ambrosianae,  you 
will  find  these  words: 

"North:  Mr.  Colburn  has  lately  given  us  two  books 
of  a  very  different  character,  [from  that  of  some  pre 
viously  mentioned],  Richelieu  and  Darnley — by  Mr. 
James.  Richelieu  is  one  of  the  most  spirited,  amusing 
and  interesting  romances  I  ever  read;  characters  well 
drawn — incidents  well  managed — story  perpetually 
progressive — catastrophe  at  once  natural  and  unex 
pected — moral  good,  but  not  goody — and  the  whole 
felt,  in  every  chapter,  to  be  the  work  of  a — gentleman. 

Shepherd:  And  what  o* Darnley? 

North:  Read  and  judge."* 

Edgar  Allan  Poe,  who  thought  himself  a  critic  while 
he  was  an  original  genius  absolutely  unfitted  for  just 
or  accurate  criticism,  said  that  James  was  lauded  from 
mere  motives  of  duty,  not  of  inclination — duty  errone 
ously  conceived.  "His  sentiments  are  found  to  be  pure," 
wrote  Poe,  "his  morals  unquestionable  and  pointedly 
shown  forth — his  language  indisputably  correct."  But 
he  calls  him  an  indifferent  imitator  of  Scott,  accuses  him 
of  having  little  pretension  to  genius,  and  adds  that  we 
"seldom  stumble  across  a  novel  emotion  in  the  solemn 
tranquillity  of  his  pages. "f  Elsewhere  Poe  says: 
"James's  multitudinous  novels  seem  to  be  written  upon 
the  plan  of  the  songs  of  the  Bard  of  Schiraz,  in  which, 
we  are  assured  by  Fadladeen,  'the  same  beautiful 


*Noctes  Ambrosianae,  II.  370 — Blackwood  Edition, 
1887. 

tMarginalia,  Black's  Edition. — III.  393. 


GEORGE  P.  R.  JAMES  159 

thought  occurs  again  and  again  in  every  possible  variety 
of  phrase.'  '  This  is  perhaps,  a  fair  comment  upon  the 
work  of  a  writer  who  produced  too  many  books. 

Samuel  Carter  Hall,  who  knew  James  well,  and  who 
gossips  with  garrulous  freedom  about  everybody,  speaks 
of  him  in  an  admiring  way.  After  observing  that  very 
little  was  known  of  James's  life,  he  says :  "I  knew  him 
and  esteemed  him  as  an  agreeable  and  kindly  gentleman, 
somewhat  handsome  in  person,  and  of  very  pleasant 
manners.  He  had  the  aspect,  and  indeed  the  character, 
that  usually  marks  a  man  of  sedentary  occupations.  His 
work  all  day  long,  and  often  into  the  night,  must  have 
been  untiring,  for  he  by  no  means  drew  exclusively  on 
his  fancy;  he  must  have  resorted  much  to  books  and 
have  been  a  great  reader,  not  only  of  English,  but  of 
continental  histories;  and  he  travelled  a  good  deal  in 
the  countries  in  which  the  scenes  of  his  historic  fictions 
were  principally  laid.  His  novels  have  always  been 
popular — they  are  so  now,  although  many  competitors 
for  fame,  with  higher  aims  and  perhaps  loftier  genius, 
have  of  late  years  supplied  the  circulating  libraries.  It 
was  no  light  thing  to  run  a  race  with  Sir  Walter  Scott, 
and  not  to  be  altogether  beaten  out  of  the  field.  His 
great  charm  was  the  interest  he  created  in  relating  a 
story,  but  he  had  masterly  skill  in  delineating  character, 
and  in  'chivalric  essays'  none  of  his  brethren  surpassed 
him."*  He  gives  to  James  more  praise  for  character- 
drawing  than  most  of  the  critics  bestow. 

Hall  quotes  from  Alison :  "There  is  a  constant 
appeal  in  his  brilliant  pages,  not  only  to  the  pure  and 
generous,  but  to  the  elevated  and  noble  sentiments.  He 
is  imbued  with  the  very  soul  of  chivalry,  and  all  his 


*Hall's  Book  of  Memories,  263. 


160  AT  THE  LIBRARY  TABLE 

stories  turn  on  the  final  triumph  of  those  who  are  influ 
enced  by  such  feelings.  Not  a  word  or  a  thought  which 
can  give  pain  to  the  purest  heart  ever  escapes  from  his 
pen." 

The  genial  journalist,  William  Jerdan,  in  his  Auto 
biography,  pays  a  deserved  tribute  to  James.     He  says: 

"Among  the  warm  friendships  to  which  I  may  allude, 
there  is  not  one  more  sincere,  more  lasting,  or  more 
grateful  to  my  feelings,  than  that  which  I  have  the 
honour  and  delight  to  couple  with  the  admired  and 
estimable  name  of  G.  P.  R.  James.  I  think  it  was  the 
production  of  'The  Ruined  City',  for  private  circula 
tion,  which  first  introduced  us  to  each  other;  and  from 
that  hour  (I  remember  the  pleasure  I  received  from  his 
volunteering  a  trial  of  his  skill  occasionally  in  the 
'Gazette')  I  now  look  back  on  a  quarter  of  a  century 
upon  a  close  intercourse  of  minds  and  hearts  without  a 
passing  shade  to  dull  its  bright  and  cheering  continuity. 
I  need  not  dwell  on  those  voluminous  writings  which 
have  placed  Mr.  James  in  the  foremost  rank  of  our 
national  fictitious  literature,  nor  need  I,  in  his  case,  illus- 
trae  my  theme  of  the  uncertainty  of  literature  as  a 
remunerative  pursuit — with  a  private  fortune,  and  the 
genius  which  has  produced  so  many  admirable  works, 
the  author  has  now  fallen  back  upon  a  consulate  at  Nor 
folk,  in  America,  where,  if  report  speaks  truth,  he  is 
exposed  even  to  danger  in  consequence  of  petty  resent 
ment  against  something  he  wrote  long  ago  about  Slav 
ery  ! — but,  I  may  say,  from  nearer  and  more  abundant 
observation  than  the  world  could  attain,  that  the  utmost 
appreciation  of  his  genius  must  fall  short  of  what  is 
due  to  his  personal  worth  and  nobility  of  nature.  As 
no  author  ever  excelled  him  in  the  purity  and  rectitude 
of  his  publications — every  tone  of  which  tends  to  inspire 
just  moral  sentiment,  and  exalted  virtue,  and  brotherly 
love,  and  universal  benevolence,  and  the  improvement 
carrying  with  it  the  progress  and  happiness  of  his  fellow 
creatures — so  no  man  in  private  life  ever  more  zealously 


GEORGE  P.  R.  JAMES  161 

practiced  the  precepts  which  he  taught,  and  was  charit 
able,  liberal,  and  generous,  aye,  beyond  the  measure  of 
cold  prudence,  and  without  an  atom  of  selfish  reserve. 
To  his  fellow-labourers  on  the  oft-ungrateful  soil  of 
letters,  he  was  ever  indulgent  and  munificent;  and  were 
this  the  fitting  time,  I  could  record  acts  of  his  perform 
ing  that  would  shed  a  lustre  on  any  character,  however 
celebrated  in  merited  biographical  panegyric.  I  trust  I 
may  state,  without  compromising  the  privacy  of  friendly 
confidence,  that  I  knew  him,  as  he  was  ever  ready  to 
make  sacrifices  to  friendship,  sacrifice  half  a  fortune, 
legally  in  his  possession,  to  a  mere  point  of  honorable,  I 
might  say,  romantically  honourable  feeling,  and 
founded  indeed  on  one  of  those  family  romances  in 
which  we  find  fact  more  extraordinary  than  fiction ;  and 
amongst  lesser  instances  of  his  general  sympathies  for 
all  who  stood  in  need  of  succour,  I  may  mention  his  pro 
curing  me  the  gratification  of  handing  over  £75  to  the 
Literary  Fund,  as  the  price  received  from  Messrs.  Col- 
burn  and  Bentley  for  a  manuscript  entitled  "The  String 
of  Pearls."* 

I  have  referred  to  the  remark  in  Chambers'  Cyclo 
paedia  about  the  custom  of  James  to  dictate  to  an  aman 
uensis,  a  custom  he  attempted  to  defend.  The  writers 
for  this  useful  work,  now  rather  antiquated,  were  quite 
given  to  the  exercise  of  censorious  judgment  about 
authors  who  did  not  preserve  their  popularity.  They 
say  of  James,  however,  that  he  was  perhaps  the  best  of 
the  numerous  imitators  of  Scott,  and  that  if  he  had  con 
centrated  his  powers  on  a  few  congenial  subjects  or 
periods  of  history,  and  "resorted  to  the  manual  labor 
of  penmanship  as  a  drag-chain  on  the  machine,  he  might 
have  attained  to  the  highest  honors  of  this  department 
of  composition.  As  it  is,  he  has  furnished  many  light, 


*Jerdan's  Autobiography,  iv  210. 


162  AT  THE  LIBRARY  TABLE 

agreeable  and  picturesque  books,  none  of  questionable 
tendency."  The  Cyclopaedia  breaks  into  exclamation 
points  when  it  chronicles  the  fact  that  the  original  works 
of  Mr.  James  "extend  to  one  hundred  and  eighty-nine 
volumes,"  and  that  he  edited  almost  a  dozen  more.  It 
then  quotes  from  some  unnamed  critic  whom  it  calls  a 
"lively  writer,"*  and  as  I  am  endeavoring  to  present 
the  contemporary  estimates  of  James,  I  venture  to 
reproduce  the  quotation : 

"There  seems  to  be  no  limit  to  his  ingenuity,  his 
faculty  of  getting  up  scenes  and  incidents,  dilemmas, 
artifices,  contretemps,  battles,  skirmishes,  disguises, 
escapes,  trials,  combats,  adventures.  He  accumulates 
names,  dresses,  implements  of  war  and  peace,  official 
retinues,  and  the  whole  paraphernalia  of  customs  and 
costumes,  with  astounding  alacrity.  He  appears  to  have 
exhausted  every  imaginable  situation,  and  to  have 
described  every  available  article  of  attire  on  record. 
What  he  must  have  passed  through — what  triumphs 
he  must  have  enjoyed — what  exigencies  he  must  have 
experienced — what  love  he  must  have  suffered — what  a 
grand  wardrobe  his  brain  must  be !  He  has  made  some 
poetical  and  dramatic  efforts,  but  this  irresistible  ten 
dency  to  pile  up  circumstantial  particulars  is  fatal  to 
those  forms  of  art  which  demand  intensity  of  passion. 
In  stately  narratives  of  chivalry  and  feudal  grandeur, 
precision  and  reiteration  are  desirable  rather  than 
injurious — as  we  would  have  the  most  perfect  accuracy 
and  finish  in  a  picture  of  ceremonials;  and  here  Mr. 
James  is  supreme.  One  of  his  court  romances  is  a  book 
of  brave  sights  and  heraldic  magnificence — it  is  the  next 
thing  to  moving  at  our  leisure  through  some  superb  and 
august  procession." 


*It  was  R.  H.  Home.     A  New  Spirit  of  the  Age 
(1844)  p.  136. 


GEORGE  P.  R.  JAMES  163 

The  lively  writer  has  a  style  which  displays  the  worst 
faults  of  the  middle  nineteenth  century,  but  he  is  really 
not  far  wrong  in  his  conclusions.  The  Cyclopaedia 
sums  up  the  matter  in  a  sentence  which  tells  the  story 
and  signifies  that  the  man  wrote  too  much : 

"The  sameness  of  the  author's  style  and  characters 
is,  however,  too  marked  to  be  pleasing." 

I  timidly  venture  to  suggest  that  the  same  thing  may 
be  true  of  Kipling  and  hope  that  I  may  not  be  annihi 
lated  by  the  bolts  of  Jupiter  for  such  a  daring  piece  of 
sacrilege.  Having  gone  so  far — but  I  will  refrain  from 
mentioning  some  other  makers  of  novels  with  regard 
to  whom  the  same  fable  might  be  narrated. 

We  may  easily  understand  that  the  accusation  of 
"sameness"  is  one  which  is  not  very  serious  when  pre 
ferred  against  the  author  of  nearly  two  hundred  vol 
umes.  As  Allibone  says,  "he  who  composes  a  library 
is  not  to  be  judged  by  the  same  standard  as  he  who 
writes  but  one  book."  We  must  remember  that  not 
only  Professor  Wilson,  but  Leigh  Hunt,  about  whose 
taste  and  discrimination  there  can  be  no  question,  says 
of  him: 

"I  hail  every  fresh  publication  of  James,  though  I 
half  know  what  he  is  going  to  do  with  his  lady,  and  his 
gentleman,  and  his  landscape,  and  his  mystery,  and  his 
orthodoxy,  and  his  criminal  trial.  But  I  am  charmed 
with  the  new  amusement  which  he  brings  out  of  old 
materials.  I  look  on  him  as  I  look  on  a  musician 
famous  for  Variations.'  I  am  grateful  for  his  vein  of 
cheerfulness,  for  his  singularly  varied  and  vivid  land 
scapes,  for  his  power  of  painting  women  at  once  lady 
like  and  loving,  (a  rare  talent,)  for  making  lovers  to 
match,  at  once  beautiful  and  well-bred,  and  for  the 
solace  which  all  this  has  afforded  me,  sometimes  over 
and  over  again  in  illness  and  in  convalescence,  when  I 


1 64  AT  THE  LIBRARY  TABLE 

required  interest  without  violence,   and  entertainment 
at  once  animated  and  mild." 

Allan  Cunningham,  in  his  Biographical  and  Critical 
History  of  the  Literature  of  the  Last  Fifty  Years 
(1833)  refers  to  his  excellent  taste,  extensive  knowl 
edge  of  history,  right  feeling  of  the  chivalrous,  and 
heroic  and  ready  eye  for  the  picturesque,  adding  that 
his  proprieties  are  admirable  and  his  sympathy  with 
whatever  is  high-souled  and  noble,  deep  and  impres 
sive.  Cunningham  was  on  terms  of  intimacy  with  him, 
as  a  number  of  letters  from  James  addressed  to  him 
abundantly  prove.  The  Edinburgh  Review  estimated 
highly  his  abilities  as  a  romance-writer,  declaring  tha^t 
his  works  were  lively  and  interesting,  and  animated  by 
a  spirit  of  sound  and  healthy  morality  in  feeling  and 
of  natural  deliberation  in  character  which  should  secure 
for  them  a  calm  popularity  which  would  "last  beyond 
the  present  day." 

He  was  not  regarded  so  favorably  by  the  London 
Athenaeun,  which  said  of  him:  "The  first  and  most 
obvious  contrivance  for  the  attainment  of  quantity,  is, 
of  course,  dilution;  but  this  recourse  has  practically  its 
limit,  and  Mr.  James  had  reached  it  long  ago.  Com 
monplace  in  its  best  day,  anything  more  feeble,  vapid — 
sloppy  in  fact,  (for  we  know  not  how  to  characterize 
this  writer's  style  but  by  some  of  its  own  elegancies)  — 
than  Mr.  James's  manner  has  become,  it  were  difficult 
to  imagine.  Every  literary  grace  has  been  swamped  in 
the  spreading  marasmus  of  his  style."* 

The  bewildered  reader  of  reviews  is  often  at  a  loss 
to  reconcile  the  censure  of  one  and  the  praise  of  another; 
and  it  was  not  very  long  before  the  appearance  of  this 
slashing  article  that  the  Dublin  University  Magazine 

*London  Athenaeum,  April  u,  1846. 


GEORGE  P.  R.  JAMES  165 

had  thus  expressed  its  opinions:  "His  pen  is  prolific 
enough  to  keep  the  imagination  constantly  nourished; 
and  of  him,  more  than  of  any  modern  writer,  it  may  be 
said,  that  he  has  improved  his  style  by  the  mere  dint  of 
constant  and  abundant  practice.  For,  although  so  agree 
able  a  novelist,  it  must  not  be  forgotten  that  he  stands 
infinitely  higher  as  an  historian.  *  *  *  The  most 
fantastic  and  beautiful  coruscations  which  the  skies  can 
exhibit  to  the  eyes  of  mankind  dart  as  if  in  play  from 
the  huge  volumes  that  roll  out  from  the  crater  of  the 
volcano.  *  *  *  The  recreation  of  an  enlarged 
intellect  is  ever  more  valuable  than  the  highest  efforts 
of  a  confined  one.  Hence  we  find  in  the  works  before 
us,  lightly  as  they  have  been  thrown  off,  the  traces  of 
study — the  footsteps  of  a  powerful  and  vigorous  under 
standing."*  The  works  were  Corse  de  Leon,  The  An 
cient  Regime,  and  The  Jacquerie — none  of  them  as  de 
serving  as  Richelieu,  Henry  Masterton,  or  Mary  of 
Burgundy.  James  was  a  member  of  the  Dublin  staff 
and  his  friend  Lever  may  have  inspired  the  compli 
ments. 

One  more  review  may  be  noticed.  Mr.  E.  P.  Whip- 
pie,  whose  criticisms  have  not  become  immortal,  evi 
dently  disapproved  of  James,  and  did  not  hesitate  to 
say  so.  It  is  the  old  charge  of  sameness  and  overpro 
duction.  Whipple  scored  James  in  the  North  American 
Review  of  April,  1844. 

"He  is  a  most  scientific  expositor  of  the  fact  that 
a  man  may  be  a  maker  of  books  without  being  a  maker 
of  thoughts;  that  he  may  be  the  reputed  author  of  a 
hundred  volumes  and  flood  the  market  with  his  literary 
wares,  and  yet  have  very  few  ideas  and  principles  for 


'Dublin  University  Magazine,  March,  1842. 


1 66  AT  THE  LIBRARY  TABLE 

his  stock  in  trade.  For  the  last  ten  years  he  has  been 
repeating  his  own  repetitions  and  echoing  his  own 
echoes.  His  first  novel  was  a  shot  that  went  through 
the  target,  and  he  has  ever  since  been  assiduously  firing 
through  the  hole.  *  *  *  When  a  man  has  little 
or  nothing  to  say,  he  should  say  it  in  the  smallest  space. 
He  should  not,  at  any  rate,  take  up  more  room  than 
suffices  for  a  creative  mind.  He  should  not  provoke 
hostility  and  petulance  by  the  effrontery  of  his  demands 
upon  time  and  patience.  He  should  let  us  off  with  a 
few  volumes,  and  gain  our  gratitude  for  his  benevo 
lence,  if  not  our  praise  for  his  talents."* 

Whipple's  critiques  are  far  more  obsolete  than 
James's  novels;  and  a  good  deal  of  what  he  says  of 
James  is  fairly  applicable  to  his  own  essays.  Even 
Whipple  concedes  the  excellence  of  Richelieu,  notwith 
standing  the  fact  that  it  did  not  emanate  from  New 
England. 

Back  in  the  forties,  there  was  a  magazine,  published 
in  Philadelphia,  known  as  Graham's  American  Monthly 
Magazine,  in  which  the  chief  American  writers  of  the 
day,  including  Poe,  Bryant,  Cooper,  Longfellow,  Wil 
lis,  and  Lowell  occasionally  figured  as  contributors.  It 
had  its  page  of  reviews  and  in  the  number  of  Novem 
ber,  1848,  it  enlightened  its  readers  with  a  disquisition 
on  "Vanity  Fair";  by  W.  M.  Thackerway  (sic),  begin 
ning  "This  is  one  of  the  most  striking  novels  of  the  sea 
son."  If  Lamb  could  only  have  met  that  reviewer,  he 
surely  would  have  danced  about,  as  on  a  memora 
ble  occasion,  singing  "diddle,  diddle  dumpling,  my  son 
John"  and  endeavored  to  examine  the  reviewer's 
bumps.  Graham  (November,  1844)  was  very  severe 
with  poor  James,  in  a  notice  of  Arrah  Neil.  The  re- 


'Essays  and  Reviews,  ii,  116,  137. 


GEORGE  P.  R.  JAMES  167 

viewer  says :  "In  our  opinion,  there  is  hardly  an  instance 
on  record  of  an  author  who  has  contrived  to  earn  an 
extensive  reputation  as  a  writer  of  works  of  imagina 
tion,  with  such  slender  intellectual  materials  as  Mr. 
James.  No  one  has  ever  written  so  many  books,  pur 
porting  to  be  novels,  with  so  small  a  stock  of  heart, 
brain,  and  invention.  He  is  continually  infringing  his 
own  copyright,  by  reproducing  his  own  novels.  Far 
from  being  surprised  that  he  has  written  so  much,  we 
are  astonished  that  he  has  not  written  more.  From  his 
first  novel,  all  the  rest  can  be  logically  deduced ;  and  the 
reason  that  they  have  not  appeared  faster,  may  be 
found  in  the  fact  that  he  has  been  economical  in  the 
employment  of  amanuenses."  More  of  this  kind  of 
talk  is  indulged  in  without  a  single  word  about  the 
book  itself  or  its  merits;  which  proves  quite  clearly 
that  the  reviewer  was  merely  following  the  path  marked 
out  by  some  other  critic,  and  there  is  no  evidence  what 
ever  that  he  had  ever  read  the  work  he  was  reviewing. 
Thus  it  is  to-day;  a  parrot-cry  of  "diffuseness,  dilution, 
re-copying,  repetition," — so  easy  to  proclaim,  so  difficult 
to  answer,  all  born  of  the  disposition  of  newspaper  and 
magazine  critics  to  accept  the  view  which  needs  no  exer 
cise  of  brains  to  approve  and  to  announce.  It  is  not 
without  significance  that  when  James  was  in  America, 
he  was  a  contributor  to  this  same  magazine,  which  had 
scored  him  so  unmercifully;  for  example,  in  the  volume 
for  1851  I  find  two  stories  by  him — Christian  Lacy,  a 
Tale  of  the  Salem  Witchcraft,  and  Justinian  and  Theo 
dora,' — as  well  as  a  rather  graceful  sonnet  to  Jenny 
Lind. 

James  C.  Derby  mentions  the  fact  that  James  was  a 
friend  of  Philip  Pendleton  Cooke,  the  Virginian  poet, 
and  relates  that  Thackeray  visited  James  when  in  the 


1 68  AT  THE  LIBRARY  TABLE 

South,  but  that  James  "resented  the  latter's  [Thack 
eray's]  flings  at  him  as  a  'solitary  horseman',  the  mean 
ing  of  which  those  who  have  read  James's  novels  will 
understand.  James  once  told  Cooke  of  his  intention  to 
write  his  own  memoirs — a  purpose  never  fulfilled.  In 
cidentally,  he  told  Cooke  a  story  of  Washington  Irving, 
his  early  adviser,  who  amiably  approved  of  his  earliest 
essays  in  literature.  It  seems  that  James  was  in  Bor 
deaux,  and  after  strolling  all  day,  returned  to  his  inn. 
On  his  way  through  a  long,  dark  passage  he  saw  some 
one  in  front  carrying  a  candle,  a  man  in  black  slowly 
ascending  the  old-fashioned  staircase.  On  the  landing 
the  man  stopped,  and  holding  up  his  candle  looked  at 
a  cat  lying  on  the  window-sill,  regarding  the  gazer  with 
a  surprised  and  frightened  expression.  The  stranger  in 
black  looked  at  the  cat  for  some  time  mutely  and  then 
muttered  sadly,  'Ah,  pussy!  pussy!  If  you  had 
seen  as  much  trouble  as  I  have,  you  would  not  be  sur 
prised  at  anything.'  After  which  he  went  on  up  the 
stairs,'  said  James,  'and  as  I  heard  that  Irving  was  in 
Bordeaux,  I  said  to  myself :  'That  can  be  nobody  in  the 
world  but  Irving',  which  turned  out  to  be  a  fact.* 

Frederick  Locker-Lampson  visited  Walter  Savage 
Landor  at  Fiesole  in  the  early  sixties,  and  found  him 
reading  a  Waverly  novel.  Lampson  congratulated  the 
old  poet  on  having  so  pleasant  a  companion  in  his  re 
tirement,  and  Landor,  with  a  winning  dignity,  replied: 
"Yes,  and  there  is  another  novelist  whom  I  equally  ad 
mire,  my  old  friend  [G.  P.  R.]  James."f  Locker- 
Lampson  does  not  seem  to  have  shared  Lander's  appre 
ciation  of  James.  He  says,  later  in  his  memoirs :  "It  is 


*  Derby's  Fifty  Years  Among  Authors,  etc.  405. 
tMy  Confidences,  161. 


GEORGE  P.  R.  JAMES  169 

a  law  of  literature  that  every  generation  should  be 
industrious  in  burying  its  own,  especially  novels.  What 
has  become  of  Smollett  and  Mackenzie — the  cockpit 
of  the  'Thunder'  or  the  sentimental  Harley?  Where 
is  the  shadowy  Mr.  G.  P.  R.  James  and  where  is  that 
witty  old  ghost  of  the  Silver  Fork  school,  Mrs.  Gore? 
*  *  *  Yet  they  all  had  vogue."*  It  is  odd  that 
almost  every  one,  in  speaking  of  James,  recites  his  num 
erous  initials  and  bestows  upon  him  the  title  of  uMr," 
which  carries  with  it  the  suggestion  of  a  sneer. 

In  my  small  collection  of  Gladstone  letters  I  find 
one  addressed  to  James  which  shows  not  only  that  the 
statesman  liked  the  books  but  that  he  and  the  author 
were  on  terms  of  some  intimacy. 

"WHITEHALL,  May  17,  '43. 

MY  DEAR  SIR:  I  thank  you  very  much  for  your  re* 
newed  kindness.  The  perusal  of  your  last  work  gave 
me  very  great  pleasure,  most  of  all  (though  that  is  but 
a  very  slender  testimony  in  their  favour)  Evesham  and 
Simon  de  Montfort,  of  whom  I  never  had  before  an 
adequate  conception.  It  is  true  I  am  adopted  into  the 
Cabinet,  &  will  I  fear  be  alleged  as  a  proof  of  its  pov 
erty.  In  point  of  form  I  cannot  succeed  Lord  Ripon 
until  the  Queen  holds  a  Council. t  The  true  and  whole 
secret  of  the  difficulty  about  Canada  corn  (and  I  do 
not  mean  that  we  can  wonder  at  it)  is,  as  I  believe,  that 
wheat,  without  great  abundance,  is  at  46  /  a  quarter. 
I  remain,  my  dear  sir, 

Yours  faithfully  &  obliged, 

W.  E.  GLADSTONE. 
G.  P.  R.  JAMES,  ESQ., 
The  Shrubbery, 

Walmer. 


*My  Confidences,  533,  534. 

fMr.  Gladstone  succeeded  Lord  Ripon  as  President 
of  the  Board  of  Trade  and  took  his  seat  in  the  Cabinet 
on  May  19,  1843. 


AT  THE  LIBRARY  TABLE 

Donald  G.  Mitchell,  describing  the  little  red  cottage 
of  Hawthorne,  in  the  Berkshire  hills,  reminds  us  that 
among  those  who  used  to  come  a-visiting  the  great 
American  romancer,  was  "G.  P.  R.  James,  that  kindly 
master  of  knights  'in  gay  caparison' ;"  and  elsewhere 
says  that  at  the  Cooper  Memorial  meeting  in 
Metropolitan  Hall,  on  February  25,  1852,  where  Web 
ster,  Bryant  and  Hawks  paid  their  tribute  to  the  author 
of  the  Leatherstocking  tales,  "Mr.  G.  P.  R.  James — 
then  chancing  to  be  a  visitor  in  New  York, — lent  a 
little  of  his  rambling  heroics  to  the  interest  of  the  occa 
sion."*  I  have  before  me  the  Memorial,  printed  by 
Putnam  in  1852,  containing  a  full  report  of  the  meet 
ing,  including  the  remarks  of  James,  and  I  do  not  find 
anything  which  may  fairly  be  called  "heroics",  rambling 
or  otherwise.  The  speech  was  manifestly  extempora 
neous.  He  began  by  expressing  his  pride  in  being  an 
Englishman,  a  romance  writer,  and  a  man  of  the  people, 
and  his  pleasure  in  paying  an  humble  tribute  to  an 
American  romance  writer  and  a  man  of  the  people. 
He  praised  the  addresses  of  those  who  preceded  him, 
corrected  a  trifling  error  of  Bryant's  in  regard  to  a  Mr. 
James,  a  surgeon,  and  declared  that  the  proposed  statue 
to  Cooper  was  not  merely  to  a  novelist,  but  to  a  genius 
— to  truth — to  truth,  genius  and  patriotism  combined. 
He  closed  by  urging  all  present  to  use  every  exertion  to 
procure  contributions  for  the  purpose  of  erecting  such  a 
statue.  To  any  unprejudiced  mind,  what  James  said 
was  appropriate  and  dignified;  well  suited  to  the  occa 
sion;  wholly  natural  and  unaffected;  and  compared  fav 
orably,  to  say  the  least,  with  the  dull  and  ponderous 
commonplaces  of  Daniel  Webster  who  had  the  chair 


*  American  Lands  and  Letters,  II — 252. 


GEORGE  P.  R.  JAMES  171 

and  who  was  singularly  unfitted  to  preside  over  such  a 
meeting.  Of  Webster's  platitudes,  Professor  Louns- 
bury  is  quite  contemptuous,  remarking  that  the  distin 
guished  orator  "had  nothing  to  say  and  said  it  wretch 
edly."*  I  believe  that  the  projected  statue  was  never 
built.  James  was  evidently  a  favorite  dinner-speaker. 
It  is  pleasant  to  know  that  he  spoke  at  a  'printer's  ban 
quet'  in  New  York  in  the  latter  part  of  1850,  and  that 
he  paid  a  well-merited  tribute  to  a  man  destined  to 
become  a  distinguished  figure  in  literature.  Bayard 
Taylor,  writing  to  his  friend  George  H.  Boker,  on 
January  i,  1851,  says:  "By  the  bye,  James  paid  me  a 
very  elegant  compliment,  in  his  speech  at  the  'printer's 
banquet'  the  other  night,  referring  to  me  as  the  best 
landscape  painter  in  words  that  he  had  ever  known. 
This  is  something  from  an  Englishman."!  He  always 
said  kind  and  appreciative  words  about  his  fellow- 
authors,  if  they  were  deserving. 

Returning  to  the  Hawthorne  cottage,  Julian  Haw 
thorne  gives  a  brief  account  of  one  of  the  visits  of 
James,  who,  it  appears,  was  living  near  by  during  the 
summer  of  1851.  As  the  narrator  was  five  years  old  at 
the  time  of  this  visit,  his  estimate  of  the  visitors  must 
have  been  founded  upon  something  other  than  his  per 
sonal  observation.  He  says: 

"James  was  a  commonplace,  meritorious  person,  with 
much  blameless  and  intelligent  conversation,  but  the 
only  thing  that  recalls  him  personally  to  my  memory  is 
the  fact  of  his  being  associated  with  a  furious  thunder 
storm." 


*Life  of  Cooper,  268. 

fLife  and  Letters  of  Bayard  Taylor,  I,  203. 


J72  AT  THE  LIBRARY  TABLE 

He  relates  how  the  storm  raged  and  how  the  door 
burst  open, — his  father  and  he  were  alone  in  the  cot 
tage— 

'"and  behold!  of  all  persons  in  the  world — to  be  her 
alded  by  such  circumstances — G.  P.  R.  James !  Not  he 
only,  but  close  upon  his  heels  his  entire  family,  numer 
ous,  orthodox,  admirable,  and  infinitely  undesirable  to 
two  secluded  gentlemen  without  a  wife  and  mother  to 
help  them  out.  *  *  *  They  dripped  on  the  car 
pet,  they  were  conventional  and  courteous;  we  made 
conversation  between  us  but  whenever  the  thunder 
rolled,  Mrs.  James  became  ghastly  pale.  Mr.  James 
explained  that  this  was  his  birthday,  and  that  they  were 
on  a  pleasure  excursion.  He  conciliated  me  by  anec 
dotes  of  a  pet  magpie,  or  raven,  who  stole  spoons.  At 
last  the  thunderstorm  and  the  G.  P.  R.  Jameses  passed 
off  together.* 

It  is  not  uninteresting  to  compare  this  rather  patron 
izing  and  supercilious  narration  of  a  trivial  incident 
with  that  which  is  given  in  his  own  Journal  by  the  fath 
er  of  this  precocious  young  gentleman  of  five  years;  and 
it  is  probably  the  fact  that  the  story  was  related  by  the 
son  not  from  his  own  memory  but  from  the  record  of 
the  Journal,  reproduced  in  "Nathaniel  Hawthorne  and 
his  Wife,"  by  Julian  Hawthorne. t  Nathaniel  Haw 
thorne  evidently  liked  James.  Under  date  of  July  30, 
1851,  he  says: 

"We  walked  to  the  village  for  the  mail,  and  on  our 
way  back  we  met  a  wagon  in  which  sat  Mr.  G.  P.  R. 
James,  his  wife  and  daughter,  who  had  just  left  their 
cards  at  our  house.  Here  ensued  a  talk,  quite  pleas- 

*Hawthorne  and  his  Circle,  33,  34. 
fVol.  I,  422-423. 


GEORGE  P.  R.  JAMES  173 

ant  and  friendly.  He  is  certainly  an  excellent  man;  and 
his  wife  is  a  plain,  good,  friendly,  kind-hearted  woman, 
and  his  daughter  a  nice  girl.  Mr.  James  spoke  of  'The 
House  of  the  Seven  Gables'  and  of  'Twice-Told  Tales,' 
and  then  branched  off  upon  English  literature  gener 
ally."*  The  acquaintance  between  the  two  authors  must 
have  been  deemed  to  be  of  advantage  to  both,  for  the 
supercilious  Master  Julian  takes  care  to  present  in  full 
a  note  of  invitation  addressed  by  James  to  the  elder 
Hawthorne  asking  the  latter  'with  his  two  young  peo 
ple'  to  visit  him,  saying:  "We  are  going  to  have  a  lit 
tle  haymaking  after  the  olden  fashion,  and  a  syllabub 
under  the  cow;  hoping  not  to  be  disturbed  by  any  of 
your  grim  old  Puritans,  as  were  the  poor  folks  of  Mer- 
rymount.  By  the  way,  you  do  not  do  yourself  justice  at 
all  in  your  preface  to  the  'Twice-Told  Tales,' — but 
more  on  that  subject  anon."t 

Under  the  date  of  August  9,  1851,  Hawthorne  gives 
his  own  version  of  the  thunderstorm  episode,  in  marked 
contrast  with  the  condescending  remarks  of  his  hopeful 
son.  It  reveals  the  difference  between  parent  and  child. 

"The  rain  was  pouring  down,"  says  Hawthorne 
senior,  "and  from  all  the  hillsides  mists  were  steaming 
up,  and  Monument  Mountain  seemed  to  be  enveloped 
as  if  in  the  smoke  of  a  great  battle.  During  one  of  the 
heaviest  showers  of  the  day  there  was  a  succession  of 
thundering  knocks  at  the  front  door.  On  opening  it, 
there  was  a  young  man  on  the  doorstep,  and  a  carriage 
at  the  gate,  and  Mr.  James  thrusting  his  head  out  of 
the  carriage  window,  and  beseeching  shelter  from  the 
storm !  So  here  was  an  invasion.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  James, 
their  eldest  son,  their  daughter,  their  little  son  Charles, 


*Hawthorne  and  his  Wife,  I.  415. 
397,  398. 


174  AT  THE  LIBRARY  TABLE 

their  maid-servant,  and  their  coachman; — not  that  the 
coachman  came  in;  and  as  for  the  maid,  she  stayed  in 
the  hall.*  Dear  me!  where  was  Phoebe  in  this  time 
of  need?  All  taken  aback  as  I  was,  I  made  the  best  of 
it.  Julian  helped  me  somewhat,  but  not  much.  Little 
Charley  is  a  few  months  younger  than  he,  and  between 
them  they  at  least  furnished  subject  for  remark.  Mrs. 
James,  luckily,  happened  to  be  very  much  afraid  of 
thunder  and  lightning;  and  as  these  were  loud  and 
sharp,  she  might  be  considered  hors  de  combat.  The 
son,  who  seemed  to  be  about  twenty,  and  the  daughter, 
of  seventeen  or  eighteen,  took  the  part  of  saying  noth 
ing,  which  I  suppose  is  the  English  fashion  as  regards 
such  striplings.  So  Mr.  James  was  the  only  one  to 
whom  it  was  necessary  to  talk,  and  we  got  along  tol 
erably  well.  He  said  that  this  was  his  birthday,  and 
that  he  was  keeping  it  by  a  pleasure  excursion,  and  that 
therefore  the  rain  was  a  matter  of  course.f  We  talked 
of  periodicals,  English  and  American,  and  of  the  Puri 
tans,  about  whom  we  agreed  pretty  well  in  our  opinions; 
and  Mr.  James  told  how  he  had  recently  been  thrown 
out  of  his  wagon,  and  how  the  horse  ran  away  with 
Mrs.  James;  and  we  talked  about  green  lizards  and 
red  ones.  And  Mr.  James  told  Julian  how,  when  he 
was  a  child,  he  had  twelve  owls  at  the  same  time ;  and, 
at  another  time,  a  raven,  who  used  to  steal  silver  spoons 
and  money.  He  also  mentioned  a  squirrel,  and  several 
other  pets;  and  Julian  laughed  most  obstreperously. 
As  to  little  Charles,  he  was  much  interested  with  Bun 
ny  (who  had  been  returned  to  us  from  the  Tappans, 
somewhat  the  worse  for  wear),  and  likewise  with  the 
rocking-horse,  which  luckily  happened  to  be  in  the  sit 
ting-room.  He  examined  the  horse  most  critically,  and 
finally  got  upon  his  back,  but  did  not  show  himself  quite 
as  good  a  rider  as  Julian.  Our  old  boy  hardly  said  a 


*A  little  bit  snobbish  for  a  Hawthorne,  is  it  not? 

fObserve  how  Mr.  Julian  Hawthorne  wholly  omits 
the  point  of  the  observation  about  the  pleasure  excur 
sion. 


GEORGE  P.  R.  JAMES  175 

word.  Finally  the  shower  passed  over,  and  the  inva 
ders  passed  away;  and  I  do  hope  that  on  the  next  oc 
casion  of  the  kind  my  wife  will  be  there  to  see."* 

I  give  the  story  in  full,  not  only  because  of  its  rela 
tion  to  James  and  his  family,  but  for  its  revelation  of 
Hawthorne  himself;  the  little  touch  of  parental  pride 
is  amusing  as  well  as  affecting.  What  Nathaniel  Haw 
thorne  thought  of  James  in  those  days  is  far  more  im 
portant  than  what  Julian  Hawthorne  thinks  of  him  now. 

Mr.  Charles  L.  James  writes  to  me: 

"Yes,  I  have  read  Hawthorne's  account  of  our  visit 
in  a  thunderstorm;  and  what  is  more,  I  remember  the 
occurrence.  I  was  little  Charley,  whom  he  mentions. 
I  remember  not  only  getting  upon  Julian's  rocking- 
horse,  but  pulling  out  his  tail  and  being  aghast  at  what 
I  had  done,  for  I  did  not  possess  a  wooden  horse  and 
it  had  not  occurred  to  me  that  the  tail  was  movable." 

I  am  glad  that  Charles  pulled  out  that  tail;  perhaps 
the  memory  of  the  outrage  inspired  the  owner  of  the 
steed  when  he  wrote  his  little  story. 

Longfellow  regarded  James  with  a  degree  of  kind 
ness  and  esteem  quite  comparable  to  that  with  which 
Hawthorne  looked  upon  him.  In  his  Journal  for  Sep 
tember  17,  1850,  he  says,  after  mentioning  several  vis 
itors  :  "Then  Fields,  with  G.  P.  R.  James,  the  novelist, 
and  his  son.  He  is  a  sturdy  man,  fluent  and  rapid,  and 
looking  quite  capable  of  fifty  more  novels. "f  Later,  on 
November  17,  he  says:  "James,  the  novelist,  came  out 
to  dinner  with  Sumner.  He  is  a  manly,  middle-aged 
man,  tirant  sur  le  grison,  as  Lafontaine  has  it,  with  a 

*Life  of  Hawthorne  and  his  Wife,  I.  422-424. 
fLife  of  H.  W.  Longfellow,  by  Stephen  Longfel 
low,  II.  177. 


176  AT  THE  LIBRARY  TABLE 

gray  mustache;  very  frank,  off-hand,  and  agreeable. 
In  politics  he  is  a  Tory,  and  very  conservative."*  James 
certainly  had  no  reason  to  complain  of  his  reception  by 
the  best  of  our  own  literary  men  of  that  day. 

It  is  an  evidence  of  the  fact  that  James  was  admired 
and  his  ability  appreciated  by  other  authors,  that  he 
was  suspected  by  no  less  a  person  than  William  Harri 
son  Ainsworth  of  being  the  writer  of  Jane  Eyre.  I 
have  before  me  an  autograph  letter  from  Ainsworth  to 
James  (November  14,  1849),  m  which  he  says:  "Any 
thing  I  can  do  for  you  at  any  time  you  know  you  may 
command,  and  I  shall  only  be  too  happy  in  the  oppor 
tunity  of  making  kindly  mention  in  the  N.  M.  M.  of 
your  Dark  Scenes  of  History.  The  times  are  not  pro 
pitious  to  us  veterans  and  literature  generally  has  within 
the  last  two  years  suffered  a  tremendous  depreciation. 

*  *  *  Do  you  know  I  took  it  into  my  head  that 
you  were  the  author  of  'Jane  Eyre,'  but  I  have  altered 
my  opinions  since  I  read  a  portion  of  'Shirley.'  Currer 
Bell,  whoever  he  or  she  may  be,  has  certainly  got  some 
of  your  'trick'  *  *  *  but  'Shirley'  has  again  per 
plexed  me." 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson  had  a  modified  fondness  for 
James,  which  is  expressed  in  a  letter  written  by  him  from 
Saranac,  February,  1888,  to  E.  L.  Burlingame.  He 

says: 

i 

"Will  you  send  me  (from  the  library)  some  of  the 
works  of  my  dear  old  G.  P.  R.  James?  With  the  fol 
lowing  especially  I  desire  to  make  or  to  renew  acquaint 
ance  :  The  Songster,  The  Gipsey,  The  Convict,  The 
Stepmother,  The  Gentleman  of  the  Old  School,  The 
Robber.  Excusez  du  pen.  This  sudden  return  to  an 

*Id,  182. 


GEORGE  P.  R.  JAMES  177 

ancient  favourite  hangs  upon  an  accident.  The  Frank 
lin  County  Library  contains  two  works  of  his,  The  Cav 
alier  and  M or ley  Ernst ein.  I  read  the  first  with  indes 
cribable  amusement — it  was  worse  than  I  had  feared, 
and  yet  somehow  engaging;  the  second  (to  my  sur 
prise)  was  better  than  I  had  dared  to  hope;  a  good, 
honest,  dull,  interesting  tale,  with  a  genuine  old-fash 
ioned  talent  in  the  invention  when  not  strained,  and  a 
genuine  old-fashioned  feeling  for  the  English  language. 
This  experience  awoke  appetite,  and  you  see  I  have 
taken  steps  to  stay  it. 

R.  L.  S." 

I  have  a  number  of  holograph  letters  of  James,  some 
of  which  show  his  pleasant  ways  and  attractive  play 
fulness.  They  constitute  the  raison  d'  etre  of  this  com 
mentary  and  so  I  will  not  apologize  for  giving  them 
almost  in  full.  He  speaks  for  himself  far  better  than  I 
can  speak  for  him.  He  was  surely  not  a  Siborne  or  a 
Major  Dwyer.  To  my  mind  these  letters  reveal  the 
man,  and  they  tell  of  an  honest,  genial  man  who  was 
able  to  write. 

He  writes  to  C.  W.  H.  Ranken,  at  Bristol,  thus : 

RENNES,  16  January,  1826. 
RANKENO  AMICO  CARISSIMO: 

That  unfortunate  Gentleman  upon  whose  back  all  the 
evils  of  this  world  have  been  laid  from  time  immemo 
rial,  I  mean  the  Devil,  has  certainly  (to  give  him  his 
due)  been  tormenting  my  poor  friend  and  schoolfellow 
pretty  handsomely.  What  with  your  cough  in  the  first 
place  and  your  abscess  in  the  second  you  have  been  quite 
a  martyr,  but  remember  the  martyrs  always  reach  heav 
en  at  last  and  I  doubt  not  that  your  sufferings  will  soon 
be  over  and  that  in  the  little  Paradise  you  have  planned 
for  yourself  some  five  or  six  miles  from  London  (rath 
er  a  cockney  distance  by  the  by)  you  will  enjoy  the 
happiness  of  the  blest  with  those  you  love  best.  I  think  I 


178  AT  THE  LIBRARY  TABLE 

shall  make  the  same  compact  with  you  that  I  have 
made  with  Becknell  namely  that  in  after  years  when 
time  has  laid  his  heavy  hand  upon  us  all  and  when  you 
are  happy  in  your  children  and  your  children's  children 
you  will  still  give  the  crusty  old  Bachelor  a  place  at  your 
fireside  and  your  Sophia  shall  furnish  me  with  strong 
green  tea  and  I  will  take  my  pinch  of  snuff  and  tell  you 
Graddam's  tales  to  amuse  the  little  ones  or  recount  the 
wonderful  things  I  have  seen  in  my  travels  or  growl  at 
the  degeneracy  of  the  world  and  praise  the  good  old 
days  when  I  was  young  and  gay  and  did  many  a  won 
drous  deed  for  "Ladye  love  and  pride  of  Chivalrie" 
and  you  shall  forgive  many  a  cross  word  and  ill  tem 
pered  remark  for  old  friendship's  sake  and  say  "He  was 
not  always  so  but  this  world's  sorrows  have  soured  his 
temper,  poor  old  Man." 

You  tell  me  to  continue  my  history  of  Bretagne,  but 
in  sooth  I  know  not  where  I  left  off.  Memory,  that 
lazy  slut,  has  forgot  to  mend  her  pocket  which  has  had 
a  hole  in  it  for  some  time  and  the  consequence  is  that, 
of  all  I  give  her  to  keep  for  me,  the  dross  alone  remains 
and  the  better  part  is  dropped  by  the  wayside.  But  I 
am  not  at  all  in  the  mood  to  give  any  descriptions.  I 
am  philosophical  and  therefore  will  tell  you  a  story. 

In  that  mighty  empire  which  exceeds  all  others  as 
much  in  wisdom  as  it  does  in  size — in  the  time  of  Fo 
Whang,  who  was  the  six  hundredth  emperor  of  the 
ninety-seventh  dynasty  which  has  sat  on  the  throne  of 
Cathay,  there  lived  a  philosopher  whose  doctrine  was 
such  that  every  Chinese  from  the  mandarin  who  enjoys 
the  light  of  the  celestial  presence  to  the  waterman  who 
paddles  his  Junk  in  the  river  of  Canton  became  prose 
lytes. 

Every  one  knows  that  every  Chinese  from  generation 
to  generation  is  in  manners,  customs,  dress,  and  appear 
ance  so  precisely  what  his  father  was  before  him  that 
a  certain  Mandarin  who  had  thought  proper  to  fall  into 
a  trance  for  a  century  or  so,  waking  from  his  sleep  and 
entering  his  paternal  mansion,  found  his  great  grandson, 
who  was  at  dinner,  so  strikingly  like  himself  that  he 


GEORGE  P.  R.  JAMES  179 

was  struck  dumb  with  astonishment.     There  were  the 
same  wide  thin  eye-brows,  there  were  the  same  beauti 
ful  black  eyes  no  bigger  than  peas,  there  was  the  same 
delicate  tea-colored  complexion.      He  wore  the  same 
silk  his  ancestor  had  worn  and  the  same  chopsticks  car 
ried  his  food  to  his  mouth.     The  Great  Grandson  in 
stantly  recognized  his  predecessor,  but  the  resuscitated 
Mandarin,  forgetting  the  lapse  of  years,  mistook  his 
descendant  for  his  own  grandfather  and  each  casting 
themselves  on  their  belly  wriggled  towards  each  other 
with  all  symptoms  of  respect.     Such  being  the  lauda 
ble  reverence  of  this  people  for  all  customs  sanctified 
by  time,  it  may  be  well  supposed  that  that  doctrine  was 
magnificent  which  could  take  a  Chinese  by  the  ear,  and 
such  indeed  was  the  doctrine  of  the  Philosopher,  name 
ly,  that  wisdom  is  folly  and  folly  is  wisdom.    Which  he 
proved  thus:     "The  end  of  wisdom"  said  the  Philoso 
pher,  "is  to  be  happy.     And  the  fewer  are  our  wants 
the  fewer  can  be  our  disappointments  and  consequently 
the  happier  we  are.    The  fool  has  fewer  wants  than  the 
wise  man  and  the  ignorant  less  wishes  than  the  learned, 
and  therefore  the  fool  being  the  happiest  is  the  wisest 
and  the  wise  man  is  but  a  fool."     Now  the  wise  men 
(even  in  China)  being  lamentably  in  the  minority  the 
Philosopher  had  all  the  voices  for  himself.    Now  there 
was  a  young  Man  named  To-hi,  who  never  pretended  to 
be  a  wise  man  but  was  nevertheless  not  a  fool,  and  go 
ing  to  the  Philosopher  he  said  to  him — "Father,  I  can 
not  help  thinking  that  your  doctrine  means  more  than 
it  appears  to  mean  and  I  think  I  have  found  its  explica 
tion."    "Speak  freely,  my  Son"  replied  the  Philosopher, 
"and  tell  me  what  you  suppose  it  to  be."     "I  imagine," 
said  To-hi,  "that  you  wish  to  inculcate  that  Men  seek 
for  wisdom  above  their  power  and  destroy  their  happi 
ness  by  examining  too  near  the  objects  which  produce  it. 
For  I  remark  that  all  that  is  beautiful  in  nature  as  well 
as  in  life  is  little  better  than  a  delusion  which  to  be  en 
joyed  must  be  seen  from  a  distance.     When  I  look  at 
the  hills  of  Tartary,  they  seem  from  here  grand  and 
soft  and  blue  and  changing  all  sorts  of  colors  from  the 


i8o  AT  THE  LIBRARY  TABLE 

reflection  of  the  Sun,  but  when  I  approach  them  I  find 
nothing  but  heaps  of  barren  rocks  and  frightful  deserts. 
If  we  regard  the  finest  skin  with  a  magnifying  glass,  it 
is  like  coarsest  cloth  of  Surat  and  the  sunset  that  we  ad 
mire  for  its  soft  splendor  to  the  nations  on  the  edge  of 
the  horizon  is  but  the  glare  of  midday.  Thus  then  we 
ought  to  enjoy  whatever  the  world  offers  us  without 
searching  for  faults  and  be  as  happy  as  we  can  without 
seeking  to  be  too  wise.  Is  not  this  what  you  meant?" 
"My  Son,"  replied  the  Philosopher  "like  many  other 
Philosophers  I  did  not  well  know  what  I  meant  and  you, 
like  many  other  commentators,  have  given  an  explana- 
don  which  the  author  never  intended." 

Rennes,  first  of  Feby. 

As  you  will  see,  my  Dear  Ranken,  this  letter  has  been 
written  half  a  century  but  I  have  been  wandering  about 
the  country  and  forgot  to  finish  it  before  I  went.  Long 
before  this  however  I  hope  you  are  fundamentally 
cured  and  prepared  to  set  up  on  your  own  bottom. 
Doubtless  you  will  find  a  vast  fund  of  nonsense  in  the 
former  part  of  this  'pistle  but  if  it  serves  to  give  you  a 
minute's  amusement  it  will  answer  the  object  of 
Yours  sincerely 

G.  P.  R.  JAMES. 

Everybody  seems  to  have  written  affectionately  to 
Charles  Oilier,  the  publisher — Lamb,  Hunt,  Keats,  Shel 
ley,  and  a  host  of  others.  His  son,  Edmund,  'beheld 
Charles  Lamb  with  infantile  eyes  and  sat  in  poor  Mary 
Lamb's  lap.'*  James  writes  to  the  elder  Oilier,  from 
the  Chateau  du  Buisson,  Garumbourg,  pres  Evreux,  on 
August  7,  1829: 

"Mv  DEAR  MR.  OLLIER. 

I  take  advantage  of  a  friend's  departure  for  London, 
to  write  to  you  though  I  have  nothing  to  say.  I  have 

*Charles  Oilier,  1788-1859. 


GEORGE  P.  R.  JAMES  181 

done  so  much  of  my  new  book  as  I  permit  myself  to  do 
per  diem  and  having  nothing  else  to  do  my  vile  cacoethes 
scribendi  prompts  me  to  indite  this  epistle  to  your  man 
ifest  trouble  and  annoyance.  My  father  informs  me 
you  have  been  ill  and  calls  your  complaint  'nothing  but 
Dis-pep-sia.'  I  hope  and  trust  however  that  you  have  no 
such  long  word  in  your  stomach,  but  if  you  have,  noth 
ing  can  be  so  good  for  it  as  crossing  the  water  and  vis 
iting  a  friend  in  France.  One  of  my  visitors  lately 
brought  me  over  about  twenty  newspapers  and  also  the 
information  that  my  unfortunate  Adra  had  never  made 
her  appearance.  Incontinent,  I  fell  into  one  of  my  ac 
customed  fits  of  passion  which  was  greatly  increased  by 
finding  that  in  none  of  the  twenty  journals  was  any  ad 
vertisement  or  mention  whatever  of  Richelieu  which  to 
gether  with  the  news  that  about  four  and  twenty  peo 
ple  had  asked  for  Richelieu  and  could  not  get  it  in  Eng 
land,  Scotland  or  Ireland,  made  me  write  instantly  to 
Mr.  Bentley  a  very  flaming  letter  about  printing  Adra 
&c.  &c.  &c.  I  had  written  to  Mr.  Colburn  sometime 
ago  without  his  doing  me  the  honor  to  answer  me,  and 
therefore  I  write  not  there  again.  I  have  since  received 
an  answer  from  Mr.  R.  Bentley  and  all  has  gone  right. 
But  I  am  most  profanely  ignorant  of  all  news  and 
therefore  will  beg  you  to  answer  me  the  following  Qys. 
if  you  can. 

Has  Richelieu  been  reviewed  in  the  New  Monthly? 
Has  it  ever  been  advertized?  Does  the  sale  proceed 
as  successfully  as  when  I  left  London?  Will  you  see 
that  its  first  success  does  not  make  Mr.  Colburn  relax  in 
his  efforts  in  its  favor?  Will  you  manage  the  reviewing 
of  Adra  and  take  care  that  it  be  sent  to  and  noticed  by 
as  many  publications  as  possible?  Will  you  see  that 
the  list  of  persons  to  whom  I  desired  it  to  be  sent  and 

>  which  I  left  in  Burlington  street  be  attended  to?    Will 

you  let  me  know  whether  there  be  anything  in  which 
I  can  in  any  way  serve  or  pleasure  you?  I  am  sincere 
and  ever  yours. 

G.  P.  R.  JAMES. 


i82  AT  THE  LIBRARY  TABLE 

This  letter  dated  at  Maxpoffle,  near  Melrose,  Rox 
burghshire,  I4th  June  1832,  is  addressed  to  Allan  Cun 
ningham. 

My  DEAR  SIR: 

When  you  were  in  this  country  last  year,  I  told  you 
not  to  forget  me ;  and  you  promised  that  you  would  not ; 
yet  I  doubt  not  that  when  you  see  the  signature  to  this, 
memory  will  have  much  ado  to  call  up  the  person  who 
writes.  Nevertheless  I  cannot  forbear — even  at  the  dis 
tance  of  time  which  has  since  elapsed,  and  the  distance 
of  space  which  intervenes — from  telling  you  how  much 
delighted  I  have  been  with  your  Maid  of  Elnar.  I 
have  not  seen  the  whole;  but  various  passages  in  various 
reviews,  have  shown  me  so  much  surpassing  beauty,  that 
I  do  not  wait  even  till  I  have  been  delighted  with  the 
whole,  to  tell  you  how  great  has  been  the  pleasure  I 
have  felt  from  a  part. 

I  do  not  know  very  well  how  or  why,  but  I  have  been 
lately  sickening  of  poetry;  and  though  once  as  great  a 
dreamer  as  ever  felt  the  sweet  music  of  imagination  in 
his  heart  of  hearts,  within  the  last  four  or  five  years  I 
have  found  it  all  flat,  stale,  and  unprofitable;  and  be 
gan  to  fancy  myself  a  devout  adorer  of  dull  prose.  I 
thank  you  then  for  showing  me  that  there  is  still  such 
a  thing  as  poetry;  and  it  would  not  at  all  surprise  me 
to  feel  myself — after  reading  the  Maid  of  Elnar 
through — taking  the  top  of  the  wave,  and  going  over 
every  poet  again  from  Chaucer  to  Byron.  Can  you  tell 
me  what  it  is  that  causes  such  a  strange  revolution  in 
tastes?  I  declare  for  the  last  five  years  since  the  Byron 
mania  was  upon  me,  I  have  looked  upon  poetry  as  the 
most  sappy,  senseless  misapplication  of  good  words,  that 
ever  the  whimsical  folly  of  the  universal  fool,  mankind, 
devised.  A  spark  or  two  of  the  old  faggot  was  re 
kindled  in  my  heart  about  six  weeks  ago,  by  hearing 
a  sonnet  of  Wordsworth's  read  aloud;  and  that  I  be 
lieve  induced  me  to  read  the  extracts  from  your  book; 
and  now  I  am  all  ablaze.  What  I  like  in  the  various 
scattered  passages  of  the  Maid  of  Elnar,  would  be  end- 


GEORGE  P.  R.  JAMES  183 

less  to  tell  without  writing  a  review ;  but  there  is  some 
thing  throughout  the  whole  which  has  enchanted  me — 
a  mingling  of  the  fine  spirit  of  old  chivalry,  with  the 
sweet  home  feeling  of  calm  happy  nature  that  is  some 
thing  newer  than  even  Spenser.  As  Oliver  Cromwell 
used  to  say,  I  would  say  something — Ay  verily — but  I 
won't  for  fear  you  should  think  me  exaggerating  and 
therefore  I  will  bid  you  farewell.  It  is  natural  of 
course  for  me  to  hate  you;  for  every  author  is  bound 
to  detest  any  other  person  who  writes  what  is  good.  I 
would  therefore  fain  pay  you  that  compliment,  but  your 
book  will  not  let  me;  and  I  must  beg  you  to  believe 
me 


Ever  yours  most  truly 

G.  P.  R.  JAMES. 


I  send  this  to  your  Bookseller,  because  I  do  not  know 
where  else  to  send  it;  and  I  pay  it,  because  many  a 
good  wholesome  letter  which  has  been  addressed  to  the 
care  of  mine,  has  never  reached  me  for  want  of  that 
precaution  on  the  part  of  my  correspondents.  Before 
the  letter  reaches  you,  I  shall  have  got  and  read  the 
whole  book;  and  by  heaven,  if  the  rest  does  not  come 
up  to  the  extracts,  I  shall  either  lampoon  you  or  your 
critics. 

Another  letter  to  Cunningham  follows : 

MAXPOFFLE  NEAR  MELROSE  ROXBURGHSHIRE 

iyth  May  1833. 
MY  DEAR  FRIEND, 

To  show  you  how  little  the  fault  that  you  notice  is 
attributable  to  myself,  I  have  only  to  tell  you  that  I 
could  not  get  a  copy  of  Mary  of  Burgundy  till  three 
days  after  you  had  received  it  and  my  sister  in  law 
writes  to  Mrs.  James,  by  the  post  that  brought  your 
letter,  that  although  she  had  ordered  the  book  through 
her  own  bookseller,  she  has  not  yet  been  able  to  get 
it,  while  friends  of  hers  have  obtained  it  at  the  circu- 


1 84  AT  THE  LIBRARY  TABLE 

lating  libraries.  Not  having  lived  in  London  for  many 
years,  I  am  quite  unacquainted  with  all  the  ins  and  outs 
of  these  affairs  and  do  not  even  know  who  is  the  Editor 
of  the  Athenaeum;  but  I  think  it  somewhat  hard  meas 
ure  on  his  part  to  make  an  author  pay  for  the  sins  of 
his  Bookseller  and  very  different  indeed  from  the  usual 
liberal  spirit  that  I  have  seen  in  his  paper. 

However,  I  never  courted  a  Journalist  in  my  life  and 
although  I  know  that  I  have  suffered  greatly  on  this 
account,  yet  I  shall  pursue  the  same  plan;  and  only  by 
endeavoring  to  make  my  works  better  than  they  have 
been,  force  all  honest  writers  to  give  them  their  due 
share  whatever  it  may  be.  At  the  same  time  I  will  en 
deavour  as  far  as  in  me  lies  to  prevent  any  such  in 
stances  of  neglect  as  those  of  which  you  complain  tak 
ing  place  for  the  future,  especially  in  regard  to  a  paper 
which  deserves  so  well  of  the  public.  Having  done  so, 
whatever  be  the  result  the  Editor  must  "tak  his  wull 
o't,  as  the  cat  did  o'  the  haggis."  I  never  re 
ply  to  criticism  unless  it  be  very  absurd  which  is 
not  likely  to  be  the  case  with  his;  so  let  him  "pour  on, 
I  will  endure." 

In  regard  to  the  String  of  Pearls  I  not  only  begged 
a  copy  to  be  sent  to  you  before  any  one  else;  I  wrote 
you  a  long  letter  to  be  sent  with  it;  but  this  is  only  one 
out  of  the  many  shameful  pieces  of  negligence  which 
Mr.  Bentley  has  shown  in  my  affairs. 

I  trust  that  the  Editor  of  the  Athenaeum  got  a  copy 
of  Mary  of  Burgundy  independent  of  that  sent  to  you 
for  I  wish  it  clearly  to  be  understood  that  I  send  you  my 
leather  and  prunella,  as  a  man  for  whom  I  have  a  high 
admiration  and  esteem,  and  not  at  all  as  a  critic.  When 
you  get  them,  review  them  yourself,  let  others  review, 
praise,  abuse  them,  or  let  others  abuse  them  as  you  find 
need;  but  still  receive  them  as  a  mark  of  regard  from 
me;  and  be  sure  that  nothing  you  can  say  of  them  will 
diminish  that  regard.  Whenever  I  have  any  one  of 
them  for  which  I  wish  a  little  lenity  I  will  write  you 
a  note  with  it  and  tax  your  friendship  upon  the  occa- 


GEORGE  P.  R.  JAMES  185 

sion;  but  still  exculpate  me  in  your  own  generous  mind 
and  plead  my  exculpation  to  others,  of  all  intriguing 
to  gain  undue  celebrity  for  my  works  or  of  dabbling 
with  literary  coteries.  I  give  in  to  my  bookseller  a  list 
of  my  friends — amongst  whom  your  name  stands  high 
and  I  leave  all  the  rest  to  him.  For  the  String  of 
Pearls  I  was  anxious  both  because  it  was  given  to  a  char 
ity  and  because  I  was  afraid  the  Publisher  might  lose 
by  it;  but  this  as  far  as  I  can  remember  is  the  only 
book  for  which  I  ever  asked  a  review. 

Thanks  however,  many  thanks,  for  your  critique  in 
the  Athenaeum  which  is  calculated  to  do  my  book  much 
good  and  is  much  more  favorable  than  it  deserves.  Of 
your  light  censure  I  will  speak  to  you  when  we  meet 
which  I  am  happy  to  say  will  be  soon — at  least  I  trust 
soon.  On  the  twenty-eighth  we  leave  this  place  for 
London  on  our  way  to  Germany  and  Italy.  My  liver 
and  stomach  have  become  so  deranged  of  late  that  I 
find  it  necessary  to  put  myself  under  the  hands  of  a 
physician  whose  prescription  is  an  agreeable  one.  "Take 
the  waters  of  Ems  for  two  seasons  and  spend  the  inter 
mediate  time  in  traveling  through  Italy."  This  plan 
I  am  about  to  pursue,  and  in  our  way  we  shall  spend  a 
month  in  London  when  I  will  find  you  out. 

The  country  round  us  is  lovely  at  present.  After  a 
cold  lingering  spring,  summer  has  set  in,  in  all  its 
radiance  and  the  world  has  burst  at  once  into  green 
beauty.  You  cannot  fancy  how  lovely  the  Cheviots 
looked  yesterday  evening,  as  Mrs.  James  and  I  rode 
over  the  shoulder  of  the  Eildons.  The  sky  was  full  of 
the  broken  fragments  of  a  past  thunder  storm  and  the 
lights  and  shadows  were  soft,  superb  and  dreamlike.  I 
know  I  may  rave  about  beautiful  scenery  to  you  with 
out  fear  or  compunction  for  the  Maid  of  Elnar  made 
me  know  that  you  love  it  as  well  as 
My  Dear  Allan, 

Ever  yours  truly, 

G.  P.  R.  JAMES. 

P.  S. — I  have  not  yet  got  your  last  volume  but  if  it 


1 86  AT  THE  LIBRARY  TABLE 

be  as  good  as  its  predecessors  you  will  have  no  occasion 
to  whip  your  Genius. 

He  writes  again  to  Cunningham : 

10  JULY,  1835. 

i  LLOYDS  PLACE,  BLACKHEATH. 
MY  DEAR  FRIEND: 

A  thousand  thanks  for  your  kind  letter  and  all  the 
kind  things  it  contains.  I  am  glad  that  you  like  my 
friend  the  Gipsey,  because  your  approval  is  worth  much 
and  though  I  think  it  tolerable  myself,  yet  I  have  at 
tributed  a  great  part  of  its  success  to  the  name.  In 
answer  to  the  question  you  put,  I  do  not  think  he  was 
drowned;  but  I  do  not  know  with  certainty.  I  have 
told  all  I  do  know  and  farther  this  deponent  sayeth  not. 
I  have  long  been  thinking  of  writing  to  you  to  tell  you 
that  the  name  of  Chaucer  appears  in  the  Scroop  and 
Grosvenor  roll  in  the  year  1386  but  all  that  I  dare  say 
you  know.  The  best  sketch  of  the  real  events  of  Chau 
cer's  life  is  certainly  that  in  Sir  H.  Nicholas'  comments 
on  that  roll,  Vol.  II.,  page  404,  wherein  he  probably 
states  all  that  can  be  learned  with  certainty  of  his  life 
and  proceedings.  I  tell  you  all  this,  although  I  dare 
say  you  are  already  acquainted  with  it  because  you  asked 
me  if  I  found  any  thing  concerning  our  poet  to  let  you 
know.  The  Black  Prince  comes  on  but  slowly.  So  much 
examination  and  research  is  necessary  that  it  is  a  most 
laborious  and  very  expensive  work.  It  has  already  cost 
me  in  journeys,  transcriptions,  books,  MSS.,  &c.,  many 
hundred  pounds  without  at  all  calculating  my  individual 
labour  and  do  you  know,  my  dear  Allan,  what  I  expect 
as  my  reward.  Clear  loss;  and  two  or  three  reviews 
written  by  ignorant  blockheads  upon  a  subject  they  do 
not  understand,  for  the  purpose  of  damning  a  work 
which  throws  some  new  light  upon  English  History.  I 
am  very  much  out  of  spirits  in  regard  to  historical  liter 
ature  and  though  I  would  willingly  devote  my  time  and 
even  my  money  to  elucidate  the  dark  points  of  our  own 
history  yet  encouragement  from  the  public  is  small  and 


GEORGE  P.  R.  JAMES  187 

from  the  Government  does  not  exist,  so  that  I  lay  down 
the  pen  in  despair  of  ever  seeing  English  history  any 
thing  but  what  it  is — a  farago  of  falsehoods  and  hypo 
theses  covered  over  with  the  tinsel  of  specious  reasoning 
from  wrong  data.  And  so  you  tell  Lord  Melbourne 
when  you  see  him.  But  to  speak  of  a  personage,  you 
are  more  likely  to  see  namely  Mr.  Chantry.  There  is  a 
bust  which  I  wish  him  very  much  to  see  and  wish  you 
would  take  a  look  at  it  first  as  I  have  not  seen  the  orig 
inal  myself.  I  have  a  cast  of  it  given  me  by  my  Banker 
at  Florence,  to  whom  the  original  belongs,  and  if  the 
head  be  equal  to  the  cast  it  is  the  most  beautiful  antique 
I  have  ever  seen.  It  is  to  be  seen  at  Mr.  Brown's  in 
University  Street,  Gower  Street  marble  works.  Ask 
to  see  the  antique  head  belonging  to  Mr.  Johnstone  and 
write  me  but  three  lines  to  tell  me  what  you  think  of  it. 
He  paid,  I  believe,  two  hundred  pounds  for  it  and 
would  take  I  believe  three  or  four.  If  it  be  as  I  think> 
it  (pedestal  and  all)  is  worth  double. 

Yours  ever  with  best  Compliments  to  your  family 

G.  P.  R.  JAMES 

Excuse  a  scrawl  but  I  am  not  very  well. 

i  LLOYDS  PLACE,  BLACKHEATH 
5th  Deer  1835 

MY  DEAR  ALLAN, — I  have  sent  you  a  book  and  have 
ten  times  the  pleasure  in  sending  you  one  now  that  ever 
I  had,  because  I  hear  you  have  detached  yourself  from 
all  reviews.  Heaven  be  praised  therefor;  for  now  you 
can  sit  down  quietly  by  your  own  ingle  nook  and  pick 
out  all  that  is  good — if  there  be  any — in  my  One  in  a 
Thousand  and  palate  it  all,  without  the  prospect,  the 
damning  prospect,  of  a  broad  sheet  and  small  print 
before  your  eyes,  and  without  wracking  your  honest 
brain  to  find  out  any  small  glimmerings  of  wit  and 
wisdom  in  your  friend's  book  in  order  to  set  it  forth  as 
fairly  as  may  be  to  the  carping  world. 

By  the  way,  I  thought  you  were  honest  and  true; 
and  yet  you  have  deceived  me  wofully.  You  promised 
to  come  down  to  Blackheath  and  you  have  not  appeared. 


13 


1 88  AT  THE  LIBRARY  TABLE 

I  have  been  writing  night  and  day  or  I  should  have 
presented  myself  to  call  you  to  account.  Will  you  come 
•down  even  yet,  and  take  a  family  dinner  with  me? 
Any  Sunday  at  five  you  will  be  sure  to  find  me  but  if  you 
come  on  another  day,  let  me  have  a  day's  notice  by 
post,  lest  I  be  engaged,  which  would  be  a  great  disap 
pointment  to 

Yours  ever  truly, 

G.  P.  R.  JAMES 

He  always  wrote  frankly  and  freely  to  Cunningham. 
This  letter  deals  with  Att'ila. 

THE  COTTAGE,  GREAT  MARLOW,  BUCKS, 

1 5th  April  1837 
MY  DEAR  ALLAN, 

Many  thanks  for  your  letter  and  kind  words  upon 
Attila.  I  do  believe  that  he  is  a  good  fellow,  at  all 
events  he  is  very  successful  in  society  and  though  there 
are  not  as  you  well  know  twenty  people  in  London 
who  know  who  Attila  was,  he  is  as  well  received,  I 
understand,  as  if  he  had  the  entree.  Conjectures  as  to 
who  Attila  was  are  various  in  the  well  informed  circles 
of  the  Metropolis,  and  ever  since  the  book  was  adver 
tised  two  principal  opinions  have  prevailed,  some  peo 
ple  maintaining  that  He,  Attila,  was  Platoff;  others 
asserting  that  he  was  a  Lady,  first  cousin  to  Boru  the 
Backswoodsman,  and  the  heroine  of  a  romance  by 
Chateaubriand.  This  may  look  like  a  joke,  but  I  can 
assure  you,  it  is  a  fact  and  that  out  of  one  hundred 
people  of  the  highest  rank  in  Europe  you  will  not  find 
five  who  know  who  Attila  was;  setting  aside  the 
groveling  animals  who,  as  the  Duke  of  Somerset  says, 
addict  themselves  to  Literature. 

I  am  very  sorry  to  hear  you  say  that  these  well  in 
formed  and  enlightened  times  have  not  done  justice  to 
your  romances.  I'll  tell  you  one  great  fault  they  have, 
which  is  probably  that  which  prevents  the  world  from 
liking  them  as  much  as  it  should  do :  they  have  too 
much  poetry  in  them,  Allan,  one  and  all  from  Michael 


GEORGE  P.  R.  JAMES  189 

Scott  to  Lord  Roldan.  But  you  must  not  expect  to  suc 
ceed  in  all  walks  of  art.  You  are  a  lyric  poet  and  a  biog 
rapher;  how  can  you  expect  that  the  critics  would  ever 
let  you  come  near  romances.  No,  no ;  they  feel  it  their 
bounden  duty  to  smother  all  such  efforts  of  your  genius 
and  they  fulfil  that  duty  with  laudable  zeal.  Did  you 
see  how  the  Athenaeum  attempted  to  dribble  its  small 
beer  venom  upon  Attila.  If  you  have  not,  read  that 
sweet  and  gramatical  (sic)  article,  when  you  will  find 
that  because  a  man  has  succeeded  in  one  style  of  writing 
he  cannot  succeed  in  another,  and  apply  the  critics  dictum 
to  yourself.  One  half  of  this  world  is  made  up  of 
idiocy,  insanity,  humbug,  and  peculation,  and  the  other 
half  (very  nearly)  of  envy,  hatred,  malice,  and  all 
uncharitableness. 

Yours  ever  truly 

G.  P.  R.  JAMES 

This  letter  is  directed  to  "Charles  Oilier,  Esq.,  Rich 
ard  Bentley,  Esq.,  New  Burlington  street,  London." 

FAIR  OAK  LODGE,  PETERSFIELD, 

HANTS,  25th  December,  1837. 
MY  DEAR  OLLIER: 

Mr.  Bentley  I  think  usually  gives  me  six  copies  of  a 
work  such  as  Louis  XIV.  I  have  already  had  one  copy 
of  the  two  first  volumes  for  the  Duke  of  Sussex,  and 
you  will  very  much  oblige  me  by  having  the  copies  sent 
to  the  following  persons  with  my  compliments  written 
in  the  front  leaf  and  dated  Fair  Oak  Lodge,  Petersfield. 
Lord  John  Russell,  Wilton  Crescent;  S.  M.  Phillipps, 
Esq.,  Home  Office;  The  Marquis  Conyngham,  Dudley 
House,  Park  Lane;  The  Lady  Polwarth,  9  John 
Street,  Berkeley  Square;  and  also  one  to  G.  P.  R. 
James,  Fair  Oak  Lodge,  which  will  make  the  six  copies. 
I  must  also  have  another  copy  sent  to  my  friend  Sey 
mour  as  soon  as  you  can,  addressed  as  follows:  "Sir 
G.  Hamilton  Seymour,  G.  C.  H.  Brussels,  In  the  care 
of  the  Under  Secretary  of  State  F.  O.  Downing 
Street."  For  this  last  I  will  pay  as  soon  as  you  let  me 
know  what  is  the  price.  Mr.  Bentley  charges  me  for 


190  AT  THE  LIBRARY  TABLE 

the  copy;  I  should  like  it  to  be  accompanied  by 
a  copy  of  Henry  Masterton,  the  small  edition  of 
which  by  the  [way]  I  have  not  received  any  copies  and 
should  like  some.  Pray  let  me  know  what  Mr.  B. 
charges  me  for  Louis  per  copy  as  there  are  several  other 
friends  to  whom  I  should  like  to  give  it,  but  as  Sancho 
would  say  I  must  not  stretch  my  feet  beyond  the  length 
of  my  sheet. 

Yours  ever, 

G.  P.  R.  JAMES. 

P.  S.  I  am  anxious  to  get  on  with  the  two  last 
volumes,  but  I  suppose  it  is  the  merry  season  which 
prevents  my  having  any  proofs  as  yet. 

A  letter  to  Alaric  Watts  refers  to  the  Boundary 
Question  pamphlet: 

FAIR  OAK  LODGE,  PETERSFIELD,  HANTS, 

9th  April,   1839. 
MY  DEAR  WATTS, 

I  write  you  ten  lines  in  the  greatest  bustle  that  ever 
man  was  in  to  tell  you  that  the  death  of  poor  Sir 
Charles  Paget  turns  me  out  of  my  house.  This  is  not 
of  necessity  indeed,  for  I  have  a  lease  of  it  for  some 
time  yet  unexpired,  but  Lady  Paget  sent  to  ask  if  I 
would  let  her  come  in  again  and  I  felt  not  in  my  heart 
to  refuse  the  widow  under  such  circumstances.  I  go 
before  the  first  of  May,  but  I  do  sincerely  wish  that 
between  this  and  then  I  may  have  the  pleasure  of  seeing 
you  here.  I  think  that  you  will  believe  me  to  be  a  sin 
cere  man;  a  tolerably  bitter  enemy  as  long  as  I  think 
there  is  cause  for  enmity,  a  very  pertinaceous  friend 
when  I  do  like.  From  this  place  we  go  to  London,  or 
rather  to  Brompton,  Mrs.  James's  sister  who  is  in  town 
for  the  winter,  having  lent  her  her  house  there,  for 
a  short  time.  It  is  called  the  Hermitage  and  is 
nearly  opposite  Trevor  Square,  which  perhaps  you  may 
know.  Do  not  suffer  yourself  or  Mrs.  Watts  to  fancy 
that  it  will  put  us  to  any  inconvenience  to  receive  you 
here  if  you  can  manage  it,  as  I  assure  you  it  will  not. 
I  sell  all  my  horses  by  auction  on  the  25th  and  you  could 


GEORGE  P.  R.  JAMES  191 

help  to  bid  them  up.  After  we  quit  the  Hermitage, 
we  have  not  the  slightest  idea  where  we  shall  go  but 
there  at  least  I  trust  to  see  you  if  you  cannot  leave 
your  weighty  employments  ere  then.  I  was  delighted 
with  your  parthian  shots,  which  were  exquisitely  truly 
aimed  and  though  the  arrows  were  not  poisoned  by 
your  hand,  the  corruption  of  the  flesh  in  which  they 
have  stuck,  depend  upon  it,  will  produce  gangrene. 
You  were  made  for  a  reviewer:  only  you  are  honest. 
How  was  it  else  that  I  escaped  even  when  we  did  not 
fully  understand  each  other? 

I  have  told  the  booksellers  to  send  you  a  little 
pamphlet  on  the  American  Boundary  question.  It  is 
merely  a  brief  and  unpretending  summary  of  the  early 
history  of  that  bone  of  contention,  only  worth  your 
looking  into  as  a  saving  of  time. 

Pray  let  me  hear  from  you  a  few  words  and  believe 
me  with  Mrs.  James's  and  my  own  best  Compliments 
to  Mrs.  Watts. 

Yours  ever 

G.  P.  R.  JAMES 

P.  S.  I  am  making  a  little  collection  of  my  works  in 
their  new  edition  for  Mrs.  Watts's  book-case  and  I  send 
Richelieu  with  this.  It  is  odd  Bulwer  should  have  just 
published  a  play  under  the  same  title  when  the  third 
edition  of  mine  had  been  announced  for  months.  I 
have  not  seen  his,  but  I  should  like  to  compare  the 
two. 

ALARIC  A.  WATTS  ESQRE 
Crane  Court 

Fleet  Street 

2  VERULAM  PLACE  HASTINGS 

loth  January  1840 
MY  DEAR  ALLAN, 

It  is  very  grievous  to  me  to  hear  that  you  have  been 
suffering  and  it  would  be  as  grievous  to  hear  the  how  if 
I  were  not  quite  sure  that  at  your  age  and  with  temper 
ance  in  all  things  such  as  yours,  the  enemy — if  so  we 
can  venture  to  call  him — will  pass  away  and  leave 


i92  AT  THE  LIBRARY  TABLE 

you,  perhaps  more  useful,  but  not  less  comfortable  for 
many  a  long  year.  Within  my  own  recollection  this  has 
happened  to  many  that  I  still  know  in  health  and  vigor 
but  while  any  vestige  remains  of  the  disease  it  always 
leaves  a  despondency  as  its  footprint  which  makes  us 
look  upon  the  attack  as  worse  than  it  really  has  been. 
Though  a  successful  man,  I  know — I  am  sure, — you 
have  been  an  anxious  man;  and  there  is  nothing  has 
so  great  a  tendency  to  produce  all  kind  of  nervous  af 
fections  as  anxiety.  I  trust  however  that  you  have 
now  no  cause  for  any  kind  of  anxiety  but  that  regard 
ing  your  health,  and  that  it  will  soon  regain  its  tone. 
Pray  my  good  friend  take  exercise,  not  of  a  violent  or 
fatiguing  nature,  but  frequent  and  tranquilly,  and  re 
member  that  anything  which  hurries  the  circulation  is 
very  detrimental.  You  will  also  find  everything  that 
sits  heavy  or  cold  upon  the  stomach  also  bad  for  you; 
I  know,  for  I  have  seen  much  mischief  done  by  even  a 
small  quantity  of  the  cold  sorts  of  fruit.  It  gives  me 
great  pleasure  to  hear  you  like  my  books.  You  are  one 
of  those  who  can  understand  and  appreciate  the  plan 
which  I  have  laid  down  for  myself  in  writing  them.  If 
I  chose  to  hazard  thoughts  and  speculations  that  might 
do  evil,  to  run  a  tilt  at  virtue  and  honor,  to  sport  with 
good  feelings  and  to  arouse  bad  ones,  the  field  being  far 
wider,  the  materials  more  ample,  I  might  perhaps  be 
more  brilliant  and  witty,  but  I  would  rather  build  a 
greek  temple  or  a  gothic  church  than  the  palace  of  Ver 
sailles  with  all  its  frog's  statues  and  marbles.  If  the 
books  give  you  entertainment,  you  are  soon  likely  to 
have  another  for  there  is  one  now  in  the  press  called 
the  "King's  Highway"  but  which  is  not  quite  so  Jack 
Sheppardish  as  the  name  imples.  With  our  best  regards 
to  all  yours  believe  me  ever 

Yours  truly 

G.  P.  R.  JAMES 

ALLAN  CUNNINGHAM  ESQRE 

Belgrave  Place 

Pimlico 


GEORGE  P.  R.  JAMES  193 

I  do  not  know  to  whom  this  letter  was  written. 

HOTEL  DE  L'EUROPE,  BRUSSELS, 

30th  July,  '40. 
MY  DEAR  SIR, 

The  grief  and  anxiety  I  have  suffered  have  brought 
upon  me  an  intermittent  fever  and  various  concomitant 
evils  amongst  which  has  been  an  affection  of  the  face 
and  eyes.  Had  this  not  been  the  case  I  should  have 
written  to  you  ere  I  left  England,  although  it  has  cost 
me  a  great  effort  to  write  to  any  one.  I  am  now  a  good 
deal  better  and  will  immediately  correct  the  proofs  I 
have  received;  but  for  the  future  will  you  tell  Mr. 
Shaw  to  send  the  proofs  in  as  large  a  mass  as  possible, 
addressed  as  follows  and  given  in  to  the  French  dili 
gence  office,  a  Monsieur  G.  P.  James  chez  M :  C.  A. 
Fries,  Heidelberg  en  Basle,  aux  soins  de  Messrs.  Es- 
chenauer  Cie,  Strasburg,  Via  Paris,  Presse. 

This  is  a  somewhat  long  address,  but  if  it  be  not 
followed  and  the  proofs  be  sent  by  Rotterdam  I  shall 
never  get  one  half  of  them  till  two  or  three  years  after, 
for  such  was  the  case  with  many  proofs  of  Edwd.  the 
Black  Prince. 

Any  letter  for  me  you  had  better  direct  at  once  to  me 
"aux  soins  de  Sir  G.  Hamilton  Seymour,  G.  C.  H.  Brus 
sels."  When  I  am  a  little  better  I  will  write  you  a 
longer  letter  telling  you  all  our  movements  and  also 
what  progress  I  have  made  in  my  plan  for  stopping 
continental  piracy;  in  which  if  you  will  give  me  your 
assistance  and  influence  I  do  not  despair  of  succeeding 
although  the  Government  will  do  nothing.  I  have  al 
ready  made  some  way  for  I  can  talk  without  using  my 
eyes. 

Yours  ever  faithfully 

G.  P.  R.  JAMES. 

This  letter  was  written  to  McGlashan,  in  Lever's 
care,  at  Brussels: 


194  AT  THE  LIBRARY  TABLE 

THE  SHRUBBERY,  WALMER, 

2nd  August,  41. 
MY  DEAR  SIR, — 

I  did  not  write  to  you  as  I  had  full  occupation  for 
every  minute  and  of  a  kind  that  could  not  be  neglected. 
The  same  will  be  the  case  for  the  next  three  weeks,  as 
I  am  just  concluding  a  new  work  which  I  can  of  course 
lay  aside  for  no  other  undertaking  till  it  is  finished.  It 
will  give  me  very  great  pleasure  to  see  you  here  on  your 
way  back  from  Brussels  and  we  can  talk  over  the  whole 
of  my  plan  but  as  to  having  even  one  number  com 
pleted  that  is  quite  out  of  the  question  as  in  order  to 
accomplish  it  I  should  be  obliged  to  lay  aside  a  work 
which  had  reached  the  beginning  of  the  last  volume 
before  you  made  up  your  mind  and  to  do  so  would  be 
highly  disadvantageous  to  both  books.  I  can  tell  you 
quite  sufficient  however  regarding  the  first  two  num 
bers  to  answer  your  views  as  to  illustrations. 

Pray  give  my  best  wishes  to  Dr.  Lever  and  tell  him 
that  we  are  all  going  on  well;   though  for  the  last  fort 
night  I  have  had  no  small  anxiety  upon  my  shoulders 
regarding  Mrs.  James  and  the  baby. 
Believe  me  to  be 
Dear  Sir 

Yours  faithfully 

G.  P.  R.  JAMES. 

On  May  17,  1842,  he  wrote  to  Mr.  Bretton: 

"*  *  *  I  am  very  glad  you  were  pleased  with 
what  I  said  at  the  Literary  Fund  dinner.  I  could  have 
said  a  great  deal  more  upon  the  same  subject  and  opened 
my  views  for  the  benefit  of  the  arts  in  this  country,  in 
cluding  literature  of  course,  as  one  of  the  noblest 
branches  of  art — but  the  hour  was  so  late  that  I  made 
my  speech  as  short  as  possible  and  yet  perhaps  it  was  too 
long.  *  *  *  I  think  if  I  can  bring  the  great  body 
of  literary  men  to  act  with  me,  especially  the  much 
neglected  and  highly  deserving  writers  for  the  daily  and 
weekly  press,  I  shall  be  enabled  to  open  a  new  prospect 


GEORGE  P.  R.  JAMES  195 

for  literature.  Should  you  have  any  oportunity  (sic) 
of  hinting  that  such  are  my  wishes  and  hopes,  pray  do : 
for  this  is  no  transient  idea,  but  a  fixed  and  long  medi 
tated  purpose  which,  however  inadequate  may  be  my 
own  powers  to  carry  it  out,  may  produce  great  things 
by  the  aid  of  more  powerful  minds  than  that  of 
Yours  very  faithfully 

G.  P.  R.  JAMES. 

The  name  of  the  person  to  whom  the  following  letter 
was  written  is  not  given : 

THE  OAKS  NR.  WALMER  KENT 

22ND  AUGT.   1844 

SIR: 

I  have  been  either  absent  from  home  or  unwell  since 
your  letter  arrived  or  I  should  have  answered  it  sooner. 
I  do  not  exactly  understand  the  sort  of  use  you  desire 
to  make  of  the  Life  of  Edward  the  Black  Prince  writ 
ten  by  myself.  Of  course  I  can  have  no  possible  objec 
tion  to  your  making  as  long  quotations  from  it  as  you 
like,  or  to  your  grounding  your  own  statements  upon 
those  which  it  contains  which  I  think  you  may  rely  upon 
with  full  confidence;  but  if  it  was  your  purpose  to  make 
the  projected  Work  a  mere  sort  of  Abridgement  of 
mine,  I  am  sorry  to  say  I  cannot  give  you  the  permis 
sion  you  desire,  however  much  I  might  personally  wish 
to  do  so,  as  Messrs.  Longman  published  a  Second  Edi 
tion  of  it  not  long  ago,  a  part  of  which  remains  unsold 
and  I  could  not  venture,  of  course  to  interfere  with  their 
sale.  They  could  not  of  course  object  to  any  quotations 
you  might  think  fit  to  make  or  any  reasonable  use  of 
the  facts  stated,  as  I  cannot  but  think  that  each  his 
torian  has  a  full  right  to  employ  the  information  col 
lected  by  all  his  predecessors. 

I  have  the  honor  to  be, 

Sir 
Your  most  obedt.  Servant 

G.  P.  R.  JAMES 


196  AT  THE  LIBRARY  TABLE 

THE  SHRUBBERY  WALMER  KENT 

IST  JUNE  1847 
MY  DEAR  WORTHINGTON, 

I  received  your  letter  yesterday  and  would  have  an 
swered  it  immediately;  but  we  are  in  the  midst  of  an 
election  business  here.  I  am  not  a  candidate;  and,  dis 
gusted  with  public  men,  had  resolved  not  to  take  any 
part  on  behalf  of  others;  but  I  have  been  led  on  and 
when  once  in  the  business  go  on,  as  you  know,  heart  and 
hand. 

Let  me  hear  a  little  more  about  the  Ecclesiastical  His 
tory  Society.  I  am  a  churchman  you  know,  but  far 
from  Puseyitical  and  I  should  not  like  to  be  mixed  up 
with  any  legends  except  such  as  Ehrenstein  or  any  Saints 
except  St.  Mary  le  bonne. 

I  am  glad  to  hear  that  you  have  moved  your  dwell 
ing;  for  Pancras  was  so  completely  out  of  my  beat 
that  it  was  impossible  for  me  to  get  there  when  in  town. 
Indeed  during  my  visits  to  that  famed  city  of  London 
I  always  put  myself  in  mind  of  an  American  orator's 
description  of  himself  when  he  said  "I  am  a  right  down 
regler  Steam  Engine,  I  go  slick  off  right  ahead  and 
never  stop  till  I  get  to  the  tarnation  back  of  nothing 
at  all." 

I  shall  be  delighted  to  see  you  and  Mr.  Christmas 
here  any  time  you  can  come  and  will  with  a  great  deal 
of  pleasure  board  and  educate  you  but  as  to  lodging 
you  I  am  unable  for  what  with  babies,  nurses,  and  one 
thing  or  another  I  can  hardly  lodge  myself.  I  do  not 
propose  to  be  in  London  for  some  days  or  I  should 
rather  say  weeks,  as  I  was  there  very  lately. 

As  to  Marylebone,  any  body  may  propose  me  for  any 
where  and  I  will  be  the  representative  of  any  body  of 
men  always  provided  nevertheless  that  I  do  not  spend 
a  penny  and  maintain  my  own  principles  to  the  end  of 
the  chapter.  I  am  not  yet  inscribable  in  the  dictlonaire 
des  Girouettes;  but  I  trust  soon  to  be  for  it  seems  to  me 


GEORGE  P.  R.  JAMES  197 

that  the  Jim  Crow  system  is  the  only  one  that  succeeds 
in  England. 

Believe  me  with  best  regards  to  all  your  household 
Yours  truly 

G.  P.  R.  JAMES 


In  a  letter  dated  April  i,  1849,  an^  addressed  to  Mr. 
Davison,  he  says: 

"I  understand  you  have  got  a  potato.  Can  you  spare 
half  of  it,  for  we  have  not  that.  But  to  speak  seriously, 
which  is  not  my  wont,  Mrs.  James  has  heard  from  Mrs. 
H.  that  on.  your  farm  there  are  some  capital  praties, 
and  as  we  have  been  languishing  for  some  of  the  jew 
els  for  the  last  month  without  being  able  to  get  anything 
edible  or  digestible,  if  this  rumor  of  your  riches  is  cor 
rect,  will  you  spare  a  sack  or  two  to  a  poor  man  in  want, 
and  what  will  be  the  cost  of  the  same,  delivered  in 
Farnham  safe,  sound  and  in  good  condition  —  wind  and 
weather  permitting.  The  truth  is  I  have  no  horse  to 
send  for  them;  and  neither  cow  nor  calf  have  learned 
to  draw  yet.  I  have  had  no  time  to  teach  them,  or  to 
buy  a  horse  either.  I  wish  any  one  else  had  half  my 
work  and  I  half  of  theirs  —  I'd  take  it  and  give  a  pre 


mium." 


How  busy  he  was  after  his  arrival  in  America  may 
be  seen  from  a  letter  dated  October  27,  1850: 

"I  fear  that  it  would  be  quite  impossible  for  me  to 
rewrite  the  first  four  numbers  of  the  tale  you  speak  of. 
Applications  for  lectures  have  come  in  so  rapidly  that  I 
have  not  one  single  evening  vacant  and  the  evening 
would  be  the  only  time  which  I  could  devote  to  such  a 
purpose  as  all  my  mornings  must  be  given  up  to  the 
fulfilment  of  my  engagements  with  England  and  to  trav 
eling  from  place  to  place.  You  may  easily  imagine 
how  much  I  am  occupied  when  I  tell  you  that  during 
the  whole  month  I  am  about  to  stay  in  Boston,  there  is 
not  one  night  which  has  not  its  lecture  fixed  there  or  at 
some  place  in  the  neighborhood.  The  delay  in  London 


198  AT  THE  LIBRARY  TABLE 

however,  of  which  I  had  not  heard  till  I  received  your 
letters  is  favorable,  as  it  will  enable  me  to  get  the  proofs 
over  in  good  time.  The  four  parts  are  in  type,  I  under 
stand,  and  I  have  written  over  two  thumping  letters  to 
the  printers  scolding  them  for  not  sending  the  proof  as 
they  are  bound  by  contract  to  do.  One  of  these  letters 
was  posted  three  weeks  ago,  so  that  we  may  expect  the 
proofs  in  a  week  or  ten  days.  In  regard  to  the  name,  it 
is  certainly  curious  that  one  name  should  have  been  taken 
three  times  but  I  do  not  see  how  it  is  possible  for  me  to 
alter  it  now  when  it  is  announced  in  London.  I  was  not 
at  all  aware  that  any  work  had  before  appeared  under 
a  similar  title,  but  you  could  head  it  James's  story  with 
out  a  name  in  the  Magazine,  but  if  any  other  title  is 
given  it  must  be  by  yourselves  and  not  by 
"Yours  faithfully, 

"G.  P.  R.  JAMES." 

Soon  after  his  arrival  in  America  he  appears  to  have 
become  involved  in  some  trouble  with  publishers.  He 
writes  from  New  York  on  October  24,  1850,  to  Oilier: 

*  *  *  "Send  no  more  sheets  to  Mr.  Law  till  you 
hear  from  me  again.  My  eyes  have  been  opened  since 
my  arrival  her.  Four  times  the  sum  now  paid  can  be 
obtained  from  Messrs.  Harper,  and  negotiations  are 
going  on  with  them  in  which  they  must  not  have  the 
advantage  of  having  the  sheets.  You  shall  not  lose  by 
any  new  arrangement — of  that  you  may  trust  to  the 
word  of  one  who  has  I  think  never  failed  you." 

He  adds,  in  a  postscript:  "Tell  him  [Mr.  Newby]  I 
have  been  shamefully  imposed  upon  by  false  statements 
of  the  sale  here  and  if  I  had  taken  his  advice  I  should 
have  been  some  hundreds  of  pounds  richer." 

On  October  5,  1851,  he  writes  from  Stockbridge  to 
Oilier: 

"I  have  not  written  to  you  earlier  because  I  wanted 


GEORGE  P.  R.  JAMES  199 

to  find  the  treaty  with  Russia  in  regard  to  Copyright, 
and  also  to  see  the  head  of  a  great  German  house  here 
in  America  so  as  to  put  you  in  the  way  of  negotiating 
for  the  sale  of  my  next  book  in  Germany.  But  I  have 
been  too  lame  to  leave  my  own  house  for  anything  but 
a  morning  drive.  I  am  so  far  better  that  I  can  now 
walk  out  for  a  mile  or  two,  but  my  right  hand  and  arm 
remain  very  painful.  However,  I  think  I  shall  be  able 
to  go  to  New  York  in  ten  days  and  will  write  to  you 
from  that  place.  *  *  *  I  am  anxious  to  dedicate 
the  first  book  I  write  to  my  own  satisfaction,  to  Lord 
Charles  Clinton.  He  is  one  of  the  noblest-minded  men 
I  ever  met  with. — all  truth  and  honor  and  straightfor 
wardness.  If  you  see  him  will  you  ask  him  for  me 
whether  he  has  any  objection.  The  Fate  is  highly  popu 
lar  here — considered  the  best  book  I  ever  wrote. — by  the 
critics  at  least.  The  whole  of  the  first  chapter  was  read 
in  the  Supreme  Court  the  other  day  before  Chief  Jus 
tice  SHAW  to  prove  what  was  the  state  of  England  in 
the  reign  of  James  II.  So  says  the  'N.  Y.  Evening 
Post'  and  I  suppose  it  is  true.  I  wish  I  had  you  here 
with  me  to  see  the  splendor  of  an  American  autumn  in 
the  most  lovely  scene.  The  landscape  is  all  on  fire  with 
the  coloring  of  the  foliage  and  yet  so  harmoniously 
blended  are  the  tints,  from  the  brightest  crimson  to  the 
deep  green  of  the  pines  that  the  effect  is  that  of  a  con 
tinuous  sunset.  Mountains,  forests,  lakes,  streams  are 
all  in  a  glow  round." 

i 

A  letter  to  Oilier,  written  at  Stockbridge  on  March 
22,  1852,  deals  with  some  financial  matters  and  then 
proceeds : 

"I  am  glad  to  hear  what  you  say  of  Revenge — though 
the  title  is  not  one  I  would  myself  have  chosen,  there 
being  a  tale  of  that  name  in  the  book  of  the  Passions. 
I  think  it  is  a  good  book,  better  in  conception  than  in 
execution  perhaps.  Your  comparison  of  Richardson 
and  Johnson  with  myself  and  you  will  not  hold.  You 


200  AT  THE  LIBRARY  TABLE 

are  scantily  remunerated  for  much  trouble.  Johnson 
had  done  nothing  that  I  can  remember  for  Richardson. 
As  to  Richardson's  parsimony  towards  the  great,  good 
man,  you  explain  it  all  in  one  word.  The  former  was 
rich.  Do  you  remember  the  fine  poem  of  Gaffer  Grey 
— Holcrofft's  I  believe — 

'The  poor  man  alone, 

To  the  poor  man's  moan, 

Of  his  morsel  a  morsel  will  give  Gaffer  Grey.' 

"But  this  rule  is  not  without  splendid  exceptions,  of 
which  I  will  one  day  give  you  an  instance,  which  I 
think  will  touch  you  much.  At  present  I  am  writing 
in  great  haste  in  the  grey  of  the  morning  with  snow  all 
around  me,  the  thermometer  at  18,  and  my  hand  nearly 
frozen.  Verily,  we  have  here  to  pay  for  the  hot  sum 
mer  and  gorgeous  autumn  in  the  cold  silver  coinage  of 
winter." 

Another  letter  of  his  written  from  Winchester,  Vir 
ginia,  November  6,  1853,  to  Oilier,  has  some  interest. 
He  writes  thus: 

"Mv  DEAR  OLLIER:  Long  before  the  arrival  of  your 
kind  letter,  which  reached  me  only  two  days  ago,  I  had 
directed  Messrs.  Harper  to  send  me  a  revise  of  the  first 
page  of  Ticonderoga,  in  order  to  transmit  it  to  you  for 
the  correction  of  errors  which  had  crept  into  the  Ms. 
through  the  stupidity  of  the  drunken  beast  who  wrote 
it  under  my  dictation.  Harpers  have  never  sent  the 
revise,  but  I  think  it  better  to  write  at  once  in  order  to 
have  one  correction  and  one  alteration  made,  which  must 
be  effected  even  at  the  cost  of  a  cancel  of  the  page — 
which  of  course  I  will  pay  for.  The  very  first  sen 
tence  should  have  inverted  commas  before  it.  These 
have  been  omitted  in  the  copy  left  here,  as  well  as  the 
words  'so  he  wrote'  or  something  tantamont,  inserted 
at  the  end  of  the  first  clause  of  that  sentence.  *  * 

*     I  cannot  feel  that  an  appointment  of  any  small 


GEORGE  P.  R.  JAMES  201 

value,  to  the  dearest  and  most  unhealthy  city  in  the 
United  States  (with  the  exception  of  New  Orleans)  is 
altogether  what  I  had  a  right  to  hope  for  or  expect. 
You  must  recollect  that  I  never  asked  for  the  consulate 
of  Virginia,  where  there  is  neither  society  for  my  family, 
resources  or  companionship  for  myself,  nor  education 
to  be  procured  for  my  little  boy — where  I  am  sur 
rounded  by  swamps  and  marsh  miasma,  eaten  up  by 
mosquitoes  and  black  flies,  and  baked  under  an  atmos 
phere  of  molten  brass,  with  the  thermometer  in  the 
shade  at  103 — where  every  article  of  first  necessity, 
with  the  exception  of  meat,  is  sixty  per  cent,  dearer  than 
in  London — where  the  only  literature  is  the  ledger,  and 
the  arts  only  illustrated  in  the  slave  market. 

I  hesitated  for  weeks  ere  I  accepted;  and  only  did  so 
at  length  upon  the  assurances  given  that  this  was  to 
be  a  step  to  something  better,  and  upon  the  conviction 
that  I  was  killing  myself  by  excessive  literary  labors. 
Forgive  me  for  speaking  somewhat  bitterly;  but  I  feel 
I  have  not  been  well  used.  You  have  known  me  more 
than  thirty  years,  and  during  that  time  I  do  not  think 
you  ever  before  heard  a  complaint  issue  from  my  lips. 
I  am  not  a  habitual  grumbler;  but  'the  galled  jade  will 
wince.' 

I  am  very  grateful  to  Scott  for  his  kind  efforts,  and 
perhaps  they  may  be  successful;  for  Lord  Clarendon, 
who  is  I  believe  a  perfect  gentleman  himself,  when  he 
comes  to  consider  the  society  in  which  I  have  been  ac 
customed  to  move,  my  character,  my  habits  of  thought, 
and  the  sort  of  place  which  Norfolk  is — if  he  knows 
anything  about  it — must  see  that  I  am  not. in  my  proper 
position  there.  He  has  no  cause  of  enmity  or  ill-will 
towards  me,  and  my  worst  enemy  could  not  wish  me  a 
more  unpleasant  position.  If  I  thought  that  I  was  serv 
ing  my  country  there  better  than  I  could  elsewhere,  I 
would  remain  without  asking  for  a  change;  but  the  exact 
reverse  is  the  case.  The  slave  dealers  have  got  up  a  sort 
of  outcry  against  me — I  believe  because  under  Lord 
Clarendon's  own  orders  I  have  sucessfully  prosecuted 
several  cases  of  kidnapping  negroes  from  the  West  In- 


202  AT  THE  LIBRARY  TABLE 

dies — and  the  consequence  is  that  not  a  fortnight  passes 
but  an  attempt  is  made  to  burn  my  house  down.  The 
respectable  inhabitants  of  Norfolk  are  indignant  at  this 
treatment  of  a  stranger,  and  the  authorities  have  offered 
a  reward  of  three  hundred  dollars  for  the  apprehension 
of  the  offenders;  but  nothing  has  proved  successful. 
This  outcry  is  altogether  unjust  and  unreasonable;  for 
I  have  been  perfectly  silent  upon  the  question  of  sla 
very  since  I  have  been  here,  judging  that  I  had  no  busi 
ness  to  meddle  with  the  institutions  of  a  foreign  coun 
try  in  any  way.  But  I  will  not  suffer  any  men,  when  I 
can  prevent  or  punish  it,  to  reduce  to  slavery  British 
subjects  without  chastisement. 

You  will  be  sorry  to  hear  that  this  last  year  in  Nor 
folk  has  been  very  injurious  to  my  health;  and  I  am 
just  now  recovering  from  a  sharp  attack  of  the  fever 
and  ague  peculiar  to  this  climate.  It  seized  me  just  as 
I  set  out  for  the  West — the  great,  the  extraordinary 
West.  Quinine  had  no  effect  upon  it,  but  I  learned  a 
remedy  in  Wisconsin  which  has  cured  the  disease  en 
tirely  though  I  am  still  very  weak.  *  *  * 

He  seems  to  have  been  tormented  by  ill  health  dur 
ing  all  his  period  of  residence  at  Norfolk.  He  writes 
to  Oilier: 

BRITISH  CONSULATE,  NORFOLK,  VIRGINIA, 
yth  April,  1855. 

MY  DEAR  OLLIER: — It  has  been  impossible  for  me  to 
write  to  you  and  it  is  now  only  possible  for  me  to  write 
a  few  lines  as  I  have  already  had  to  do  more  than  my 
tormented  and  feeble  hands  could  well  accomplish.  For 
10  weeks  I  was  nailed  to  my  chair  with  rheumatic  gout 
in  knees,  feet,  hips,  hands,  shoulder.  For  some  time  I 
could  only  sign  my  dispatches  with  my  left  hand  and  to 
some  letters  put  my  mark.  Happily  my  feet,  knees, 
&c.,  are  well,  but  I  cannot  get  the  enemy  out  of  my 
hands  and  arms.  My  shoulder  is  Sebastapol  and  will 
not  yield. 


GEORGE  P.  R.  JAMES  203 

Another  letter,  also  in  my  possession,  I  have  caused 
to  be  printed  elsewhere.  It  is  addressed  to  Oilier,  and 
was  written  from  Farnham,  Surrey,  on  July  26,  1848. 

My  dear  Oilier:  I  do  not  suppose  that  I  shall  be  in 
town  for  a  few  days,  and  I  think  in  the  meantime  it 
would  be  better  to  send  me  down  the  sheets  with  any 
observations  you  may  have  to  make.  I  shall  be  very 
happy  to  cut,  carve,  alter  and  amend  to  the  best  of  my 
ability.  The  'sum'  can  only  be  described  as  'Heaven, 
Hell  and  Earth',  or  if  you  like  it  better,  'upstairs,  down 
stairs,  in  my  lady's  chamber.'  But  I  suppose  neither  of 
these  descriptions  would  be  very  attractive  and  there 
fore  perhaps  you  had  better  put  'The  Sky,  the  hall  of 
Eblis,  South  Asia'.  When  it  maketh  its  appearance  you 
had  better  for  your  own  sake  take  care  of  the  reviewing ; 
for  I  cannot  help  thinking  that  with  the  critics  at  least, 
my  name  attached  to  it  is  likely  to  do  it  more  harm 
than  good,  unless  friendly  hands  undertake  the  review 
ing.  The  literary  world  always  puts  me  in  mind  of  the 
account  which  naturalists  give  of  the  birds  called  Puffs 
and  Rees  which  alight  in  great  bodies  upon  high  downs 
and  then  each  bird  forms  a  little  circle  in  which  he  runs 
round  and  round.  As  long  as  each  continues  this  health 
ful  exercise  on  the  spot  he  has  first  chosen,  all  goes  on 
quietly;  but  the  moment  any  one  ventures  out  of  his 
own  circle,  all  the  rest  fall  upon  him  and  very  often  a 
general  battle  ensues.  I  wish  you  could  do  anything  for 
my  book  Gowrie  or  the  King's  Plot.  I  had  a  good  deal 
of  money  embarked  in  it. 

Yours  faithfully, 

G.  P.  R.  JAMES. 

My  letter  of  latest  date  indicates  the  time  when  he 
was  transferred  to  Richmond. 

BRITISH  CONSULATE,  NORFOLK,  VA. 
3  May,  1856. 

MY  DEAR  MR.  KENNEDY:  *  *  *  Lord  Clar 
endon  has  ordered  me  to  make  every  preparation  for 

14 


204  AT  THE  LIBRARY  TABLE 

moving  the  Consulate  of  Virginia  up  to  Richmond  but 
not  to  do  so  until  he  has  nominated  a  Vice  Consul  for 
Norfolk.  He  also  wishes  me  to  send  him  a  detailed  re 
port  regarding  the  late  epidemic  here  and  what  between 
house  hunting,  office  hunting,  and  trying  to  run  down 
those  foxes  called  rumors  into  their  holes  and  to  draw 
truth  up  from  the  bottom  of  her  well  in  a  place  where 
people  are  as  fanatical  upon  contagion  and  non-con 
tagion  as  if  they  were  articles  of  faith,  I  have  had  no 
peace  of  my  life.  My  book  I  would  have  sent  you  but 
I  could  not  get  a  copy  worth  sending.  It  has  found 
favor  in  the  South  and  is  powerfully  abused  in  the 
North,  both  which  circumstances  tend  to  increase  the 
sale  so  that  it  has  been  wonderfully  well  read.  *  * 

*  I  am  sorry  I  did  not  think  of  taking  notes  of  all 
the  winning  conversations  at  Berkeley.  We  might  have 
made  out  together  some  few  from  the  Noctes  Berkeli- 
anae. 

Yours  ever, 

G.  P.  R.  JAMES. 

I  was  interested  not  long  ago  in  a  remark  of  the  ac 
complished  literary  reviewer  of  the  Providence  Journal 
about  reading  for  boys.  He  said:  "As  a  matter  of 
fact,  there  is  plenty  of  good,  healthy  reading  for  boys 
if  parents  and  teachers  would  do  more  to  bring  it  to 
their  attention.  To  say  nothing  of  Scott — whom  some 
degenerate  youngsters  in  these  days  profess  to  find  stu 
pid — there  are  Ainsworth,  G.  P.  R.  James,  Mayne 
Reid  and  hosts  of  others  who  can  tell  stories  of  adven 
ture  that  any  healthy  minded  boy  will  enjoy."  I  know 
well  the  sound  and  refined  judgments  of  my  Providence 
friend, — who  castigated  me  once  for  my  opinion  that 
Cowper  was  not  much  read  in  these  times — but  I  do 
not  understand  how  he  can  imagine  a  boy  of  the  twen 
tieth  century  condescending  to  read  Ainsworth  or  James. 
First  and  foremost,  the  novels  are  too  long.  The  con- 


GEORGE  P.  R.  JAMES  205 

ventional  three  volumes  demanded  by  the  English  pub 
lic  are  revolting  to  the  minds  of  the  modern  boys  who 
want  their  fiction  condensed  and  flavored  with  tabasco 
sauce.  The  Providence  critic  and  I  know — or  think 
we  know — what  they  ought  to  read,  what  would  be 
good  for  their  intellectual  digestion;  but  we  might  as 
well  offer  them  pre-digested  tablets  in  lieu  of  chocolate 
creams.  The  young  person  will  not  now  subsist  on  a 
diet  of  Ainsworth  or  of  James.  The  long-spun  dia 
logue  would  bore  him.  He  calls  for  something  more 
piquant;  revels  in  slang;  wants  "sensation"  and  plenty 
of  it,  compressed  in  a  small  compass.  As  for  the  par 
ents,  they  do  not  know  much  better  themselves.  The 
man  of  Providence  well  says:  "The  trouble  is,  as  was 
pointed  out  in  these  columns  recently  in  discussing  the 
reading  of  girls,  that  the  home  atmosphere  is  all  against 
any  intelligent  selection  of  books."  The  prevalent  an 
tagonism  to  all  that  is  called  "old-fashioned"  is  not  lim 
ited  to  the  young  people,  and  the  novels  of  James  are,  in 
comparison  with  the  novels  of  to-day  as  old-fashioned 
as  are  the  plays  of  Massinger  in  comparison  with  those 
of  Bernard  Shaw. 

James  has  been  compared  to  Dumas,  and  there  are 
many  things  in  common  between  the  two  authors — their 
voluminous  publications,  their  bent  towards  the  his 
torical,  and  their  use  of  an  amanuensis.  A  critic,  not 
very  well  disposed  towards  James,  says  in  regard  to  this 
comparison,  "both  had  a  certain  gift  of  separating  from 
the  picturesque  parts  of  history  what  could  without  dif 
ficulty  be  worked  up  into  picturesque  fiction,  and  both 
were  possessed  of  a  ready  pen.  Here,  however,  the 
likeness  ends.  Of  purely  literary  talent,  James  had  lit 
tle.  His  plots  are  poor,  his  descriptions  weak,  his  dia 
logue  often  below  even  a  fair  average,  and  he  was  de- 


2o6  AT  THE  LIBRARY  TABLE 

plorably  prone  to  repeat  himself."*  This  harsh  judg 
ment  appears  to  me  to  be  far  too  severe.  His  descrip 
tions  are  not  weak,  and  he  surely  had  an  advantage  over 
Dumas  in  the  matter  of  decency  and  morality. 

But  the  most  ardent  admirers  of  this  hard-working 
and  conscientious  toiler  in  the  fields  of  literature  must 
own  that  in  all  his  multitudinous  pages  he  has  not  given 
to  the  world  a  single  character  which  has  endured  in 
the  popular  mind,  and  the  Podsnap  virtue  of  having 
written  no  word  which  could  bring  a  blush  to  the  cheek 
of  the  young  person,  cannot  remedy  this  flaw  in  his 
title.  Writers  who  rival  him  in  productiveness  but  who 
are  in  respects  inferior  to  him,  have  nevertheless  secured 
a  more  permanent  place  in  the  hall  of  fame,  because 
they  have  been  able  to  give  to  some  of  their  personages 
a  real  and  distinctive  life.  Leather-Stocking  and  Long 
Tom  Coffin  shine  forth  from  the  many  wearisome  chap 
ters  of  Fenimore  Cooper,  Count  Fosco  and  Captain 
Wragge  from  the  ephemeral  volumes  of  Wilkie  Collins, 
and  Mrs.  Proudie  from  the  placid  chronicles  of  Anthony 
Trollope,  but  they  have  no  kinsmen  in  the  works  of 
James.  Even  in  the  historical  stories  no  individual 
stands  forth  like  Louis  XI.  in  Ouentin  Durward  or 
Rienzi  in  Bulwer's  stirring  tale.  Nor  has  he  left  to 
posterity  any  brilliant  tour  de  force  like  the  "Dick  Tur- 
pin's  Ride"  of  Harrison  Ainsworth. 

Whatever  may  be  said  of  the  diffuseness  and  same 
ness  of  the  stories,  of  their  want  of  definite  plan,  their 
lack  of  strength  in  the  development  of  the  characters 
who  throng  their  pages,  and  the  evidence  they  afford 
of  hasty  composition,  it  must  be  admitted  that  they  are 


*Encyclopaedia  Britannica,  XIII.  561    (Ninth  Edi 
tion). 


GEORGE  P.  R.  JAMES  207 

clean  and  dignified  in  tone  and  that  they  display  a  won 
derful  acquaintance  with  history  as  well  as  a  faithful 
and  conscientious  use  of  materials  gathered  with  infinite 
pains  and  laborious  research.  These  qualities,  how 
ever,  are  not  those  which  ensure  literary  immortality; 
and  while  it  is  possible  that  the  best  of  the  books  may 
find  from  time  to  time  readers  incited  to  peruse  them 
by  a  certain  curiosity,  and  while  the  lovers  of  good 
stories  may  enjoy  them,  it  is  not  likely  that  they  will 
ever  rank  with  the  novels  of  Scott,  of  Thackeray,  of 
Dickens,  or  even  of  Marryat  and  Lever,  although  they 
may  occupy  a  place  on  the  shelves  of  our  libraries  by 
the  side  of  the  old  romances  of  the  period  of  Amadis 
de  Gaul  or  the  forgotten  tales  of  the  younger  Crebil- 
lon. 


APPENDIX 

A  LIST  OF  THE  WORKS  OF  G.  P.  R.  JAMES 

It  is  difficult  to  give  an  accurate  list  of  James's  books 
with  the  dates  of  their  publication.  The  one  given  by 
Allibone  is  the  most  complete,  but  it  is  not  always  cor 
rect.  The  catalogue  of  the  British  Museum  enumerates 
sixty-seven  novels.  The  following  does  not  include 
merely  edited  works  or  those  prepared  in  collaboration 
with  others,  with  a  few  exceptions.  Those  marked  with 
an  asterisk  are  reprinted  in  the  collected  edition  of  1844- 
1849.  I  was  mucn  helped  not  only  in  correcting  the 
Allibone  list,  but  in  the  preparation  of  the  sketch  of 
James,  by  the  late  G.  H.  Sass  of  Charleston,  S.  C., 
who  was  probably  better  informed  about  the  subject 
than  any  one  else  in  this  country. 

Life  of  Edward  the  Black  Prince:  2  vols:  1822. 
[Some  accounts  give  1836:  See  ante,  page  136.] 

The  Ruined  City:  a  poem. 
Richelieu:  3  vols:  1829. 

*Darnley:  3  vols:  1830. 

*Del'Orme:  3  vols:  1830. 

-  *Philip  Augustus:  3  vols:  1831. 

^Memoirs  of  Great  Commanders:  3  vols:   1832. 
*Henry  Masterton:  3  vols:  1832. 
History  of  Charlemagne.     1832. 

*  *Mary  of  Burgundy:  3  vols:  1833. 
*Delaware:  3  vols:  1833:  (reprinted  under  title  of 

209 


210  AT  THE  LIBRARY  TABLE 

"Thirty  Years  Since,"   1848). 

*John  Marston  Hall:  3  vols:  1834:  (reprinted  under 
title  of  "The  Little  Ball  o'  Fire,"  1847). 
x  *One  in  a  Thousand:  3  vols:  1835. 
v  *The  Gipsey:  3  vols:  1835. 
'•Educational  Institutions  of  Germany:  1836. 
'Lives  of  the  Most  Eminent  Foreign  Statesman:  5 
vols:  (4  by  James,  1836,  [1832?]   1838. 
Attila:  3  vols:   1837. 

Memoirs  of  Celebrated  Women:  3  vols.  (  ?)  1837. 
*The  Robber:  3  vols:  1838. 
Book  of  the  Passions:  1838. 
History  of  Louis  XIV.  4  vols:  1838. 
*The  Huguenot:  3  vols:  1838. 
Blanche  of  Navarre:  a  play:  1839. 
Charles  Tyrrell:  2  vols:  1839. 
*The  Gentleman  of  the  Old  School :  3  vols :  1839. 
*Henry  of  Guise:  3  vols:  1839. 
History  of  the  United  States  Boundary  Question: 

1839- 

*The  King's  Highway:  3  vols.:  1840. 

The  Man  at  Arms:  3  vols.:  1840. 

Rose  d'Albret:  3  vols.:  1840. 

The  Jacquerie:  3  vols.:  1841. 

The  Vernon  Letters:  3  vols.:  (edited).     1841. 

*Castleneau;  or  the  Ancient  Regime:  3  vols.:  1841. 

*The  Brigand;  or  Corse  de  Leon:  3  vols.:  1841. 

Corn  Laws. 

History  of  Richard  Coeur  de  Lion:  4  vols.:  1841-42. 

Commissioner;   or  De  Lunatico  Inquirendo:  1842. 

*Morley  Ernstein:  3  vols.:  1842. 

Eva  St.  Clair,  and  Other  Tales:  2  vols.:  1843. 

The  False  Heir:  3  vols.:  1843. 

*Forest  Days:  3  vols.:  1843. 


APPENDIX  211 

History  of  Chivalry:  1843. 

*Arabella  Stuart:  3  vols. :  1843. 

*Agincourt:  3  vols.:  1844. 

Arrah  Neil:  3  vols.:  1845. 

The  Smuggler:  3  vols.:  1845. 

Heidelberg:  3  vols.:  1846. 

The  Stepmother :  3  vols. :  1 846. 

Whim  and  its  Consequences:  3  vols.:  1847. 

Margaret  Graham:  2  vols.:  1847. 

The  Last  of  the  Fairies:  1847. 

The  Castle  of  Ehrenstein:  3  vols.:  1847. 

The  Woodman:  3  vols.:  1847. 

The  Convict:  3  vols.:  1847. 

Life  of  Henry  IV.  of  France:  3  vols.:  1847. 

Russell:  3  vols.:  1847. 

Sir  Theodore  Broughton:  3  vols.:  1847. 

Beauchamp:  3  vols.:  1848. 

Carmazalaman;  a  Fairy  Drama:  1848. 

The  Fight  of  the  Fiddlers:  1848. 

Forgery;   or  Best  Intentions:  3  vols.:  1848. 

*Gowrie;   or  the  King's  Plot:  1848. 

Dark  Scenes  of  History:  3  vols.:  1849. 

John  Jones'  Tales  from  English  History:  2  vols.: 
1849. 

A  String  of  Pearls:  2  vols. :  1849.  [His  first  written 
book;  published  1833  (?) ;  Allibone  assigns  its  publi 
cation  to  1849]. 

Iceland's  "David  Rizzio":  1849:  (edited). 

Heathfield's  "Means  of  Relief  from  Taxation": 
1849:  (edited). 

Henry  Smeaton:  3  vols.:  1850. 

The  Fate:  3  vols.:  1851. 

Revenge:  (sometimes  called  A  Story  Without  a 
Name)  :  3  vols.:  1851. 


212  AT  THE  LIBRARY  TABLE 

Pequinillo:  3  vols. :  1852. 

Adrian;  or  the  Clouds  of  the  Mind:  (jointly  with 
M.  B.  Field):  2  vols.:  1852. 

Agnes  Sorel:  3  vols.:  1853. 

Ticonderoga;   or  the  Black  Eagle:  3  vols.:  1854. 

Prince  Life:  1855. 

The  Old  Dominion ;  or  the  Southampton  Massacre : 
3  vols.:  1856. 

Lord  Montagu's  Page:  1858. 

The  Cavalier:  (Bernard  March?) :  1859. 

Adra;   or  the  Peruvians:  a  poem:  (circa,  1829). 

The  City  of  the  Silent:  a  poem. 

The  Desultory  Man:  3  vols. 

Life  of  Vicissitudes. 

My  Aunt  Pontypool :  3  vols. 

The  Old  Oak  Chest:  3  vols. 


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